


The Scout and the Inquisitor

by DAfan7711



Series: Inquisitor Romances [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:53:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 23,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in timelessness by a barrier spell gone wrong, Ava is blown loose when Mark Adaar seals the Breach. Should she come out of hiding to warn the Inquisition of the true danger they face, or remain the Herald’s silent protector in the shadows? If the elf rogue and Qunari warrior meet, will he ask her to remain at his side forever, or will he honor her calling to serve a power more ancient than Corypheus?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Breach

She was trapped in timelessness.

Ava’s barrier spell had collided with an unexpected fade rift, blending into a vortex out of time, pinning her between a broken jut of shattered temple wall and nothingness. Cellular stasis was excruciating, but she couldn’t cry out or move, and her chaotic thoughts moved with agonizing slowness because there was no time to structure them against.

Perhaps she heard voices and fighting in the aftermath of the conclave explosion; or perhaps the frenzied montage against her ears was an echo of previous wars. It didn’t matter, for she was suspended from time altogether.

For the first time in forever, she was helpless.

She didn’t know if it was ages or seconds, how many Blights or tragedies scoured the world, before another explosion broke her loose and tossed her down on the broken stones of the Temple floor. Ignoring the silent screams of her muscles and mind, she rolled sideways to hide in the shadow of a boulder, hesitant to try a spell that might trap her again, her dual blades pointed toward a commotion under the now-headless statue of Andraste that stood in the middle of the ruined Temple.

A lean human warrior wearing the Seekers’ symbol on her tabard and a sleek black braid around her head bent to put a hand on the shoulder of a giant Qunari man who was down on one knee. Despite the glow of red lyrium around the Temple, his gray skin shone like silver in the moonlight. He was clean-shaven and bald, with two sleek black horns rising from his skull in perfect symmetry.

“You did it.” Even in such a short sentence, the Seeker had the punchy, rolling, half-swallowed accent of Navarra. She had the stern nose of the royal family, with the toned body and facial scar of a soldier.

Cheers broke out from a company of mages, Templars, and soldiers who rattled their weapons in the air behind the human and the Qunari.

“I still don’t remember why it was necessary, what happened at the conclave,” he murmured in a rich Marcher baritone. Despite the crowd, Ava’s elf ears caught the comment and she held her breath, hoping his keen Qunari hearing and molten gold eyes didn’t catch her hiding in the shadows.

“The Breach is sealed. You have given us time to investigate,” the Seeker said. “Tonight we celebrate and tomorrow we will discuss what new direction the Inquisition must take. Come.”

_Inquisition._

Ava couldn’t suppress a shudder. During the last Inquisition, many of Mythal’s apostles had been brutally tortured and murdered, along with innocent villagers caught between warring factions.

Only centuries of training and practice kept Ava from gasping aloud when the others turned to leave. The Qunari’s left hand was gloveless, revealing a green miniature rift inside his gray palm. It flickered and went out, leaving his palm as smooth and gray as his square, clean-shaven jaw, but she could still sense the power in his hand.

_Marked by the Orb. And he doesn’t remember catching it._

But Ava remembered all that she had witnessed. She needed to learn how much time had passed while she’d been trapped in timelessness, and then find entry into this Inquisition. They didn’t know the enemy or danger they faced, and, maybe, just maybe, she could help make this Inquisition less bloody than the last.

-

Unable to shake the feeling he was being watched, Mark Adaar turned from the Temple and followed Lady Pentaghast from the ruins back to the Haven Chantry. The observing presence seemed cautious, tense, but not malicious, so he didn’t ask Cassandra about it just yet. Best to wait. He didn’t want to open up new trouble before they even got back to the village.

There was a lot of laughing and dancing with mead around the campfire that night. He stood by Cassandra in front of the Chantry, discussing strategy. A few brave souls, emboldened by relief and a lot of drink, came up to his towering, horned form and shook his hand.

He tried to keep his smile politely mild—Varric had told him his usual toothy grin frightened shorter people—and put the revelers at ease. Even the Iron Bull, who was very difficult to impress, came up to congratulate him and punch him on the shoulder.

“That’s going to leave a bruise, Bull.” Mark rubbed his shoulder.

“Ah, vicious Tal-Vashoth like you wouldn’t be bothered by a little something like that.” Bull winked and went to the fire to chat up a redheaded human from the tavern.

Mark turned his thoughts inward and stared into the fire, unseeing.

“What troubles you?” Cassandra asked.

“I’m not sure.” He shook his head and turned to face her. “I have this dread in my throat and gut.”

She waited with uncharacteristic patience for him to continue.

“I don’t know how I know, but I’m sure the Breach wasn’t our biggest danger.”

“I am willing to have faith in your insight. I was wrong to doubt you earlier.”

“It’s not like you didn’t have any reason to suspect me.”

She gave him a full, genuine smile he hadn’t seen before, then shyly lowered her gaze to her toes, her long black lashes catching light from the dancing camp fire.

_Uh oh._

The realization hit him like a druffalo. How long had he been traveling with an admirer he was too block-headed to realize admired him? He’d taken her beauty, power, and battle skill for granted, without a thought for how such constant companionship might grow into something else. Why had he assumed the Right Hand of the Divine would never see him as more than an oxman marked for a purpose beyond his station? Or perhaps she was drawn to him _because_ she thought him chosen by the Maker.

He kept his face carefully neutral as he reviewed anything he might have said or done to indicate a wish for more than friendship. Nothing came to mind, but he did treat her like a friend instead of a leader of the Inquisition or Navarran royalty.

He wasn’t an ox. He was an ass. A blind, dumb, ass. Before he could think of what to say, she spoke.

“I—”

The watch bells clanged a frantic alarm and whatever she was about to say was lost.

Red Templars came rushing down the mountain with enough torches to burn Haven to the ground.


	2. Bloodied snow

Ava waited in her hiding place a full hour after the Inquisition agents left. Then she eased out to explore the smoldering ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

None of the Blights had ever left such an impression. Spires of charred stone rose into the now-calm heavens, jagged pieces of red lyrium had sprouted and grown along every wall, petrified bones knelt in agony . . .

She gradually became aware of a dissonant singing in her head, a scrape of strings and screams similar to fear and despair demons that chased her in dreams. The red lyrium called to her, begged her, pleaded with her to invite the madness in. It wasn’t sweet enough to be seductive, but it was a persistent demand that would make even the strongest of mortals eventually yield.

_I won’t listen to you._

She shut out the voices, just as she had been taught, but she was cautious not to touch the lyrium and she did not linger.

It didn’t take long to investigate the ruin; most of the Temple had been blown away. Other than a few broken statues, all signs of the Chantry and soldiers were gone. There were no animal droppings, not even from birds. Even if she’d only been trapped a few hours or days, there should be droppings of various ages. Whatever magic cursed this place deterred all life from drawing close.

There was also no moisture in the air; nor could she feel any in the earth beneath her feet. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the rock below her, delved deep until she could hear a tiny little underground stream screaming with red lyrium poisoning as it pulsed through cracks in the packed stones.

Ava drew her senses back into herself, sheathed her enchanted dual blades, and quickly left the Temple in the same direction the Inquisition agents had taken. To learn what had happened after the Qunari was marked, she would need to join them.

They hadn’t tried to cover their tracks, just headed down the only route that still somewhat resembled a path into the little village of Haven.

As she drew away from the Temple, she felt more disturbances in the air, earth, and water: trees giving off special pollens to ward off new enemies, echoes of distant red lyrium spires, and clean snow crying out as it was trampled by legions of war boots. She continued her brisk walk down the mountain, focusing on the sad songs the snow carried. They were muddied by red lyrium screams and the hungry snaps of over a thousand torches.

_Destroyers march on Haven!_

She needed to warn them.

Ava broke into a sprint too late: the alarm bell was already pealing and anyone on this side of the mountain could now hear legions of Red Templars swarming down the mountainside.

_At least I can add my blades to the battle._

As she approached the closed front gate, she ducked behind a boulder. She saw a group of five soldiers swagger toward the gate. They wore Tevinter armor, each with a long-horned spike rising from the center of his helm.

Before she could gage whether she could silently take out the one in the rear, a flash too quick for her to see felled four of them from behind, with barely a grunt from each. The beefy leader continued on, the bells and war shouts making him deaf to his comrades’ fate.

Ava jumped up just in time to see a shaggy-haired youth twin fang the warrior in the back. The rogue wore a wide-brimmed hat and odd leathers that looked pieced together.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” He rattled the gate.

Inquisition troops flung it open.

“I’m Cole! I came to warn you. To help . . .”

With the commotion, Ava slipped in unnoticed and grabbed a green scout coat someone had forgotten on a crate. She slipped it on and blended into the ranks behind the troop commander. She kept the hood up to shade her blue eyes, blonde-white hair, and green Mythal Vallaslin on her forehead. She wasn’t the only dark-skinned person there, and there were more than a few elves, so she hoped their ranks were big enough no one questioned her presence just because she was a new face.

Judging from the panicked screams of villagers behind her, she had picked the right side to support.

“Cullen, give me a plan, anything!” The marked Qunari was there, ready to lead from the front.

Basically, Commander Cullen’s plan was a no-holds-barred fight to the death. Ava hoped she could contribute enough so that all these refugees didn’t end up in a mass grave. She also hoped to get out alive herself.

She sensed a movement under a tree by the merchant’s cart and stole a glance in that direction. Cole was heading toward the Chantry, then disappeared in stealth powder. Should she follow his lead, skulk around the Chantry and villagers as a guard; or should she fight up front with the Qunari who had held an Orb and lived?

_The enemy comes for him, not the village, and he doesn’t know it—or why._

Then she heard her Lady’s voice in her mind: _Save him and you save them all._

If it was Mythal’s will, Ava would see it through.

She steeled herself, dropped stealth powder, and shadowed the Qunari as he ran for the north trebuchet. His Seeker friend was with him, along with a dwarf wielding an impressive crossbow, and a bald, clear-skinned elf mage who appeared to be more proficient with blizzard than barrier.

As they ran down the path, they met a scout racing toward them.

“Herald! They’re already across the Lake.”

_Harold’s an odd name for a Qunari._

Templars swarmed up the paths with animalistic roars. They glowed red and pulsed with a silent, ear-shattering scream of red lyrium that made Ava flinch more than the image of their mutated bodies. She was grateful the other defenders didn’t have her insight: If they could hear what she did, they’d have dropped their weapons to flee, or fallen on the ground in despair; either option would have them quickly slaughtered.

As they neared the trebuchet, cheers went up from the Inquisition soldiers struggling to keep Red Templars off the platform.

“The Herald is here! The Herald of Andraste has come!”

_Not Harold. THE Herald. Of Andraste._

If they survived, Ava would have to consider the implications of that religious title.

“Solas, slow that thing down!” The Qunari pointed to a behemoth lumbering across the lake and the elf mage threw down an ice wall.

The trebuchet platform was flanked by two paths up from the lake. The Seeker dashed to the left path to make a choke point. She hit her sword on her shield to taunt the invaders. The dwarf and elf stood on the platform, raining arrows and fire spells down. The Herald held the path on the right, swinging his ax in a wide arc with both arms to scatter attackers and then crushing the enemy in front of him with a mighty blow.

That move left his right side open to attack.

Ava sensed more than saw movement toward him. With her left hand, she threw a barrier around the Herald; simultaneously with her right, she flung her tackle chain at the center of the moving air, hoping to catch whatever it was. The hook caught and she vaulted over to stab the cloaked attacker in the back. The enemy screamed like a demon and fell dead at the Herald’s feet. Ava flit back into the shadows before she could be seen.

The Herald spun around to see the creature at his feet, a Shadow: It may have been a man once, but it was a gray monster now, with red lyrium protruding from its neck and boxy head, and long red spikes instead of forearms and hands protruding from its elbows.

The platform was clear. The crew launched a clean hit straight into the enemy’s ranks.

The dwarf jumped down to talk with the Herald for a moment before the Seeker ran over to him, too.

“Mark, were you injured?” She had held the left path without a blink or flinch, but was breathless and wide-eyed as a doe when she rushed to his side. Ava shook her head.

_Taking your lover on the battlefield is a good way to end up distracted and dead._

“I’m fine, Cassandra.” His tone was all business. “Let’s clear the way to the south trebuchet.”


	3. Unexpected help

Mark brought his ax crashing down on who he thought was the last enemy within range. Then a purple barrier shot around him and he felt movement to his right. Faster than he could move, he heard the tell-tale whip-snap of a rogue’s chain followed by the scream of a beast.

He spun around to find a Shadow dead at his feet. Sneak attack like that would have run right through gaps in his heavy armor; he’d have been dead before he knew he’d been stabbed. For the first time that night, Mark was actually a little bit worried about his own safety.

_I’m no good to anyone dead._

He looked up to thank Solas for the last-second barrier, but the elf was on the other side of the fence, supporting Cassandra, and couldn’t have helped him.

Varric jumped down from the trebuchet platform.

“That was a close one,” the dwarf said. “You okay?”

“Untouched. I didn’t see who helped us. Varric, did the rogue in the funny hat bring a mage friend, too?”

“We haven’t exactly had time to chat, but I didn’t see anyone with him and I’m pretty sure the kid’s still up at the Chantry.”

Cassandra rushed over, trailed by Solas.

“Mark, were you injured?” She was breathy and wide-eyed with that yearning look he’d first seen at the campfire less than an hour ago.

He almost wanted to stab himself—not fatally, of course—for his stupidity. How long had he blithely led her on while they traveled together? Once they broke this siege, he would have to explain he only wanted friendship—and hope she didn’t skewer him herself.

“I’m fine, Cassandra.” His tone was all business. “Let’s clear the way to the south trebuchet.”

They fought their way down the path, grabbing a few supplies from the wall by the forge as they rushed past, and found Red Templars looting the dead bodies of the trebuchet’s crew. Horrors and another Behemoth marched in on them, too.

Mark cut his way to the trebuchet wheel, his friends flanking him. When they all stood back-to-back next to the wheel, Solas threw barrier around the four of them and they split: Cassandra ran off to distract and chip away at the big enemies, while Solas and Varric moved around the perimeter, striking down all the archers they could from a distance.  Mark kept his back against the platform and smashed attacker after attacker; they wildly dashed straight for him without regard for their own survival, but his arms were tiring and they very well could overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

As he raised his ax again to block an incoming swordsman, the enemy burst into flames and ran panicked in the opposite direction. Mark looked for Solas, but the elf was blocked from view by a wall of red lyrium. He rolled to the side to look for a way to help Cassandra and Solas with the Behemoth before it could erect another wall. From all the way across the field, he saw Solas throw barrier down on Cassandra, just as Mark heard and felt the thrum of someone else covering Mark with barrier.

_Two mages, one in hiding. And how many rogues?_

“Survive first; ask questions later,” he muttered to himself, and crashed through the red lyrium wall to bring down the Behemoth.

-

Ava felled the last archer in the shadows of the cliff face while the Herald and his comrades took down the final Behemoth. In the distance, she could hear stirs of others tainted by Red Lyrium. She stayed hidden to watch for further troops.

The Herald—the Seeker had called him Mark—yanked on the trebuchet gear, then pulled the lever to send the shot into the approaching army. Tumbling snow, rocks, and trees bowled them over and blocked the rear ranks from marching further.

Cheers rang up from the soldiers and refugees. The dwarf called Varric slapped the Herald on the back and the two men shared a wide grin.

Ava felt it just a moment before the others heard it: a massive rage of Red Lyrium rushing toward Haven, too big and fast to be in a man or on foot. She looked up to see a deformed dragon on swift wings speeding for them. Her warning shout was lost in the dragon’s roar as the beast swooped in overhead and leveled the south trebuchet with a single spit of fire, knocking everyone off their feet.

“Everyone to the gates!” the Herald shouted.

They staggered up and ran. As they raced past the smithy, Mark veered off to the right to help a bald man with a bushy mustache break through a crate that had fallen to block the cottage door.

“Good one! Just grabbing some essentials! Won’t die for the forge!” the human said, and ran into the burning building.

_What are you doing? When there’s a dragon trying to kill you, you don’t stick around for your gear. You run!_

She wanted to scream, but Ava held her tongue and followed the others onward.

Without a backward glance at the smith, they ran on with Ava unnoticed in the rear. Just inside the gate they found a lone Templar woman, outnumbered twelve-to-one, fending off a stream of invaders who jumped the fence. Ava jumped into the fight with the Herald and his friends. She didn’t bother with stealth powder here; it was pure chaos and her green scout hood made her look like she belonged with the Inquisition troops.

Once they cleared the gate, she dropped more stealth powder; an invisible rear guard would be more effective if the group was ambushed.

“Help!”

Red Templars were torching the outbuildings—with people still inside. Mark dashed up the ladder of a lookout platform and onto a burning roof, invisible Ava on his heels, while the human, elf, and dwarf fought the misshapen troops below. The merchant was pinned to the floor under a fallen beam. Mark jumped through a hole in the roof, broke open the door with his ax, and dragged the man out.

While his back was turned and his arms full with a person instead of his weapon, a foot soldier dashed out from behind the house. Ava jumped from above and drove both her enchanted blades into the attacker’s back, exploding him into shards of ice. Quick as a blink, she melted back into the shadows.

She continued on as their invisible rear guard as they rescued four more stragglers and rushed into the Chantry. While the Qunari Herald and the human troop commander debated whether the refugees had a chance to take the pilgrimage path, Ava squatted down across from Cole at Roderick’s side and gently took the chancellor’s wrist in her hand. He was already burning with fever.

“He’s going to die,” Cole said.

Ava pursed her lips and gave him a slight nod. However talented the healer, abdominal wounds were always tricky; even if they weren’t in the middle of a siege, Ava didn’t think anyone would be able to wick away all the toxins coursing through Roderick’s blood. She ran a finger along his wrist, sending out cool waves to reduce the fever and dull the pain. Those small mercies were the best she could do.

“What of your escape?” the commander was asking the Herald.

Ava had missed the conversation, but the grim set of Mark’s face said it all: He would stay behind so the others could run.

So would she.


	4. Join the cause

Mark raced from the Chantry with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas. He hoped whoever had helped him earlier had made it in to the Chantry and escaped out the back with Cullen. Anyone loitering in Haven would soon be dead, defender and invader alike.

They were the bait, and his companions were just as grimly determined as he was.

“If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to get an asshole’s attention,” Varric said.

Mark couldn’t help but laugh, even with the battle lust coursing through his veins and the stink of fear and fires slapping him in the face.

Fighting their way to the final trebuchet was much like the battles they’d endured earlier in this endless night of terror, but now there were no screaming villagers, and Mark and his friends were tiring, battle weary, nearly out of the adrenaline that had kept them alive so far.

He felt like he’d been mindlessly turning that trebuchet wheel for years, like he was stuck in a nightmarish time loop where he had to live in the same dire moment forever until the heavens finally consumed the world.

In reality, it only took a few minutes and the trebuchet was aimed to bury Haven.

Then the dragon came back, carrying a darkspawn Magister, and Mark was cut off from his friends.

He was too tired to be afraid of this new face. He could remember he had to keep this Elder One monster talking, but he wasn’t focused on what they said to each other. Even when the thing yanked him up in the air to dangle by his wrist, he felt it distantly, like he was outside of himself watching it happen to another person. Then he was thrown against the trebuchet and jolt of pain went up his spine. He scrambled to pick up a fallen enemy’s sword and get back on his feet, just as an archer shot a flaming arrow overhead to indicate the refugees had made it beyond the tree line.

Mark straightened, pulled on all his reserves for one last desperate blow.

“You expect us to surrender and kneel. We will not. You’ll face us all. When _we_ choose!”

He kicked the trebuchet loose and ran for a hole in the fence that led to an underground cave. He flung himself through the entrance as the mountain came crashing down on top of them, scrunching his eyes shut and bracing for the fall down onto the jagged rocks.

But he didn’t hit the bottom. A few inches above the floor, he landed on a pliable purple barrier that jarred him far less than an impact on stone. Skin tingling, he opened his eyes to see himself surrounded by a Life Ward’s green glow. These two little purple and green magic lights cradling him were the only illumination in a tunnel of darkness.

With a sigh, he pushed himself upright, slowly rose to his feet until he was standing, and leaned a shoulder on the rough wall of the dark cave. He could feel the same watchful presence he had noticed at the Temple.

“Th—” he had to clear his throat to get his voice out. “Thank you.”

No answer.

He hadn’t expected one.

Though it was dark, he knew he was facing the way he had been running. Mark took a shuffling step in the direction of the pilgrimage path, clutching at the wall as his loose muscles and lethargic brain encouraged him to lie back down.

Then an unexpected warmth crept up from his toes, along his legs, up his body, into his mind, nudging him back from his weariness and into action. He hoped it was another benign gift of magic and not a sign of hypothermia.

A few steps further down the path, the cave opened up into a larger recess, dim gray light trickling in from various side-caverns. Hope kindled in his chest again and he increased his pace—stopping short when a whisp and two despair demons popped up in front of him. He lifted his left arm up to shield his face and a ball of green light shot out of his palm. The demons shrieked and melted back into the Fade.

Whatever the orb had done to him in Haven, he could now open rifts, not just close them. When fighting this darkspawn and his demons, it might prove useful.

He moved on. The cave exit by the forest must be near: he could smell pine needles.

Still relatively warm from the earlier infusion of magic, he kept trudging in the same direction, out of the caves, and into a whiteout blizzard. The tall peak marking the pilgrimage path flickered in the distance, hidden for minutes at a time in the howling snow. Mark squared his shoulders, put his head down against the wind, and plowed on.

He didn’t know if he plodded along for minutes, hours, or days. His feet and hands were again numb with cold. All his brain could think was _step, step, step_. Every time his feet seemed too heavy to lift and he stumbled, a gentle hand at his elbow kept him from falling on his face and he felt a little flow of heat into his bones.

Suddenly, the wind wasn’t tearing through his ears. He was sheltered between two walls of brown rock. In the vague distance he could see an orange glow and hear voices of a large gathering of people.

Finally, his legs gave out and he fell to his knees.

“Oh, no you don’t. I didn’t follow you this far just to have you die unnoticed a hundred yards from camp.”

He couldn’t speak, was too tired to turn his head. He felt someone kneel beside him, lift his right arm up over a shoulder, slide a gloved arm along his waist. A dark green hood pressed against him as a scout helped him to his feet. He bent against the shorter form, marveled at how he didn’t smother or crush his rescuer.

His companion gave a shrill bird whistle and the leaders of the Inquisition rushed up from the camp.

“He just needs rest by the fire, Commander, and water; he’s dehydrated.”

He felt himself eased over to lean on taller shoulders: Cullen on his right, Cassandra on his left. He wanted to thank the one who had delivered him from the storm, but he couldn’t open his mouth, or make his eyes lift from the ground.

He blinked to find himself on a cot under a tent with open sides, a large, warm fire at his feet. A healer tilted up his head to help him take a sip of water, then covered him in furs and blankets.

Mark fell into a dreamless sleep.

-

Ava watched from the shadows as the commander and Seeker helped the Herald onto a cot in the healer’s tent. The dark-haired woman hovered longer than was necessary, but left immediately when a soldier came to her with some whispered news.

Mark would warm faster with shared bodily warmth, but the healers didn’t seem to think of it and Ava was not about to suggest that the Seeker get under the blankets with the Herald where there was no privacy; the refugees had already seen enough shocking events this evening. The thought made Ava smile for the first time since this whole mess began.

Over the next few hours, she drifted amongst the people of the camp and listened without talking. It was cold enough no one would think it odd for her to keep her hood up to shield her face from view.

In very little time, she learned the names of all the key members of the Inquisition and pieced together the story of what happened while she was trapped at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Mark had recruited both the Bull’s Chargers and a key member of the Friends of Red Jenny. The Inquisition had not approached the loyalist mages, but saved all the souls they could in Redcliffe. The beautiful, sassy mage from Tevinter had saved the Herald from time magic in Redcliffe as well. All the Templars at Therinfal Redoubt had either been slaughtered by an envy demon or turned into the mindless monsters of the darkspawn Magister calling himself Corypheus.

_If I had been there, maybe we could have saved them, too, instead of choosing one faction over the other._

She pushed the thought away. The first lesson her Lady had taught her was _we must move forward_. It was the first lesson because it was the most important. Trying to change the past was folly; she knew of unchanging Tevinter ruins in the Western Approach that testified to that. What mattered was how the current moment played out into the future. Over the years, several of Ava’s friends had been killed when they were so caught up in past injustices that they couldn’t focus on the current need.

The current need.

_Corypheus must be stopped._

He threatened the whole world, even more than the blight had ten years ago when Ferelden was down to two Grey Wardens. He would rip apart the world, the Fade, and time itself. No one was safe. If it had been Mythal’s will to fight the fifth blight, surely it would be her will now for Ava to join the Inquisition to defeat the fool calling himself The Elder One.

A chilly breeze moved across her shoulder and she heard a whisper of confirmation in her head. Yes, she would join this Inquisition.

It would be easier if they would officially recruit her, so she didn’t need to constantly skulk around in the shadows. There was something familiar in Sister Nightingale’s voice; Ava would start with her to test the waters.

It was surprisingly simple. She approached the Spymaster from the front, giving the other woman plenty of time to see her coming. As she neared, she could see under the purple hood and realize where she’d seen Leliana before: many places during the last blight, along the way between Lothering and Fort Drakon, where Ava had always remained a shadow; and, before that, in grande balls of Orlais, where Ava had masqueraded as a servant while brokering alliances that sheltered displaced common folk from nobles who wanted to sell them to Tevinter. She might not know it, but the former bard had also been blessed by Mythal.

Ava approached her as a Dalish elf separated from her clan by a disaster.

“Sister Nightingale, during my wanderings in the forest, I saw the Breach and arrived just as the Red Templars did. I offer my services to the Inquisition, if you would have me.”

“How would you serve?”

The Spymaster looked her in the eye, person-to-person, not human-to-elf, yet Ava suddenly realized Leliana’s people probably knew she was a stranger and had at least three archers covering her from places unseen.

“Wherever I am needed.”

Leliana gave her a smile.

“I saw who delivered the Herald back to us. You need not fear me. Come, let us speak with Commander Cullen about where there is the greatest need.”

She recognized the ex-Templar’s name from accounts of the bloody uprising in Kirkwall. The sing of Lyrium no longer cried in his veins, but Ava could feel within him the deep well of suffering that plagued all those with Templar power.

The commander was happy to add another rogue to the ranks. She was careful not to mention her magic, though Leliana threw her a narrowed glance when Ava provided an obviously truncated account of her combat and reconnaissance skills.

_She knows, and doesn’t care._

Ava hoped the commander wouldn’t figure it out until after she had impressed him with a few invaluable contributions. Under normal circumstances, he could probably immediately sense a mage. Here, after the desperate escape, the camp was rife with magic, fear, and stale aftereffects of adrenaline that washed across everyone.

She bowed to them both and followed another of Leliana’s scouts to secure some rations and a bedroll. She gratefully laid herself down next to another campfire where off-duty scouts slept and slipped into Fade dreams.

A few hours later, bickering woke her. She sat up to see the Inquisition’s leaders arguing about infrastructure and where to go next. At the healer’s tent, Mark sat up on one elbow watching them, too. He shared a few words with Mother Giselle, then got up and left the tent, shaking his head.

The Revered Mother also rose to her feet. She shuffled toward the communal fire and started singing, unaccompanied:

_Shadows fall_  
_And hope has fled_  
_Steel your heart_  
_The dawn will come . . ._

Leliana joined in the second stanza, then more scouts, then Cullen. Soon Ava and everyone in camp was singing the old Chantry song of hope—except the surprised Qunari and, lurking beyond the light of the fires, the frowning elf mage named Solas.

After the last refrain, happy chatter broke out amongst most of those in camp. The Herald followed Solas over to a torch beyond the farthest tents for a private conversation.

Ava rose and joined a group sharing the campfire closest to the Herald, surreptitiously watching to make sure he and the elf didn’t disappear into the night.

After a few minutes, Mark returned to speak with Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra, and Josephine.

“We scout north, for Skyhold,” he said.

_Skyhold._  Tarasyl'an Te'las.

She knew of it. Difficult to access, the castle had been lost for a while. How would they know about it, unless someone in the camp was a gifted Fade walker?

Ah. The scowling elf mage. Ava threw a glance his way, where he stood apart from everyone else. She would need to be careful in dreams so they never met in the Fade, just in case they might recognize each other from another time and place with different names. He didn’t look familiar, but she didn’t want to take that chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language: Tarasyl'an Te'las: the place where the sky was held back. Original elven name for Skyhold.
> 
> Movies with quips about shared bodily warmth include The Spy Who Loved Me (1977) and The Day After Tomorrow (2004).


	5. The Inquisitor

It took a few days, but the days-long trek to Skyhold seemed shorter to Mark than the few hours he’d spent defending Haven and trudging through the blizzard.

He missed the warm presence that had guided him through the snow. Each night when they made camp, he mingled with the troops and scouts, looking for a lithe form in a green hood. No one felt right. He hoped the one he sought was just scouting ahead and hadn’t left or been lost.

Then, as he climbed a ridge beside Solas in the mid-day sun, Skyhold came into view. It was an abandoned fortress in the mountainside, with only one point of entry, and enduring stone walls.

The next few days were a blur of decisions and labor from sunrise to sunset. Even the Herald helped clear rubble and get the main portcullis functional. Some Haven survivors who had families and communities to return to had spread the word of the Inquisition’s survival; pilgrims started pouring in, hoping to find sanctuary with the organization declared by the Left and Right hands of the Divine. With Justinia dead and the Chantry in chaos, they looked for any leader who might be blessed by the Maker.

One morning when Mark left the guardroom by the front gate, he found the four leaders of the Inquisition waiting for him. Cassandra beckoned him over. The others bowed and left the two to talk.

“The Inquisition needs a leader, the person who has already been leading it.”

She started talking business without preamble, but he knew there was something else he was very late in addressing.

“Cassandra, I have faithfully served the people, will continue to do so . . . but I can’t be who you want me to be—what you want me to be.”

“You speak of our friendship, yours and mine?”

“Yes. I will always be your friend, wherever time or distance takes us.”

She gave him a wry smile.

“That is what my heart has told me, also. I will do my best to not make things difficult for you.”

“I—”

“Let us not speak of it again. Will you be Inquisitor?”

“Yes.”

He followed her up the recently patched stone stairs to the landing in front of the keep’s main entrance, accepted the ceremonial sword, and promised the people they would defeat the darkspawn Magister who promised to be a god ruling over them all.

The cheers did little to move him—he had felt bound to everyone’s fate even before they found Skyhold—but he did notice something that made his heart skip: he was being watched by the one who had found him in Haven.

He scanned the crowd, but couldn’t match a face or form with the feeling. He didn’t care. There would be plenty of time to find each other and become acquainted, now that they were all home together at Skyhold.

Finally feeling the hope everyone expected from him, the Inquisitor raised the sword in the air and accepted his new title.


	6. First touch

Mark was seriously thinking about asking Cullen and Bull to show him some shield techniques, like Bull did with Krem. Maybe tomorrow, if he was even able to sit up tomorrow. It would mean changing his strength and stretching routine to make him fast enough to use a one-handed blade, but training with different, lighter weapons sounded pretty good right now. Using a Claymore was effective offensively, but left him open to side blows and his bruised ribs were quivering and screaming loud enough to make his breath short. Solas had mended his scratches, but claimed the rest of his body needed time to heal itself.

“Bullshit,” he hissed to himself. “The smug intellectual bastard just likes to see the brute taken down a notch.”

One of the human sisters tending to the wounded by the tents offered him an herbal ointment in a little glass jar. He gave her his thanks and made his way to the relative quiet of a stump under a tree between the kitchen and stable. He sat on the stump and sighed.

“Ouch. Okay, deep breaths are not a good idea.”

He unbuttoned his shirt, eased it off his stiff shoulders, and laid it on the grass to his right. Leaning sideways didn’t feel great either, but it was a soreness instead of a stabbing pain.

He uncorked the jar, dipped the tip of a finger in the ointment—it smelled like elfroot and citrusy honeysuckle—and reached around his left side, under his arm, and up toward the back of his ribcage under his shoulder.

“Shit.” Pain shot through his ribs, right shoulder, and tricep, knocking him forward to lean his forearms on his knees and pant with his eyes squeezed shut. After a few moments, the sensation was down to an awful throb. He gingerly eased up and opened his eyes.

A few strides away stood an elf woman with gorgeous deep brown skin, a green Mythal Vallaslin on her forehead, blonde-white hair up in a bun, and piercing blue eyes clearer than a pure mountain stream.

She wore green and silver prowler armor with the Inquisition boots common among Leliana and Cullen’s people.

She was so still, he wondered if she breathed. Her eyes were alive, though, with knowledge and sympathy. His sensitive ears hadn’t caught the sound of her boots on the grass. Then again, he had been preoccupied with his insides feeling like they were being both ripped and crushed at the same time.

“Would you like assistance with that?”

Her voice was deep, but still very clearly female. Very powerfully female. He felt a little pull in his chest that had nothing to do with his injuries.

“Please,” he said with a wry smile and lifting up the jar of ointment to invite her closer.

When she took the jar, a wave of invisible fire ran from her fingertips into his. He looked to her face, but she gave no sign she had felt it, instead kneeling at his side and focusing on the spot behind his arm.

He could see how the thin white curls under her bun brushed along the long curve of her neck. She carried the scent of strawberries and pine needles, scents not often found at Skyhold, and had well-oiled dual blades strapped in weathered sheathes on her back.

 “Had you no mage with you in the field, Herald? These bruises go deep.”

He braced himself for the expected shot of pain, but it didn’t come. When she touched his side, a cooling sensation spread from there, along every bone in the front and back of his ribcage. Breathing was easier. He felt great, better than normal. Even though the first touch had done it, she gently worked her fingers across each rib on the left side of his back.

“Solas patched up our worst scratches.”

She stilled briefly, then continued working, massaging the ointment over both sets of triceps in turn with her thumbs, and then shuffling her knees to bring her over to his left shoulder.

She had magic hands, used rogue weapons, and carried that pine scent he’d noticed in the cave; the strawberries were a new and welcome development.

_She’s the one._

“It’s Ava, isn’t it?”

He was pretty sure he’d seen her from a distance as she slipped quietly into certain meetings with his advisors when he himself had been on the way elsewhere.

“Yes.”

“Do you work for Commander Cullen or Sister Nightingale?”

She looked up from his shoulder with an impish grin.

“Guess.”

“Both?”

“Correct.”

She rose to her feet to stand in front of him, cocked her head to the side to consider his collarbone. She dipped her thumb in the glass jar and ran it from his left shoulder down his collarbone—that did shoot a stabbing pain across his neck and down his sternum.

“ _Damn._ ”

“What the bloody hell was your resident Fade expert thinking?” She kept her heated comment quiet enough for his ears only. “You’ve a cracked collarbone. It should have been mended right away, but I bet you slugged on in your heavy armor and broadsword to make it worse.”

Shrugging would just make it hurt more, so he stayed still and waited for her to speak again. When she finally filled the silence, her angry tone was replaced with resolve.

“Stay still.”

She laid her palm across the left side of his collarbone, her thumb and index finger touching his racing pulse in two places. A searing heat raced across the bone, throwing his eyes wide and making him gasp.

“Sorry about the pain. Fusing an old break always hurts worse than a fresh one.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded and backed away. He missed the heat of her hand.

“Good day to you, Inquisitor.” She turned to depart.

“You’ve the hands of a healer, Ava, yet your blades are well cared for and well used. Why not use a staff, or even a bow?”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow, waited for him to figure it out on his own.

“Ah. Stealth and subtlety. A staff and bow would be too conspicuous. Shouldn’t have asked.”

She gave him a smile and wink over her shoulder and quietly made her way toward the stairs to the kitchen.

He wondered if there was any way he could casually ask Leliana about this elven scout who knew how to fight and how to heal. Then again, Leliana—everyone in Skyhold—probably knew by now that she’d tended to his bare back and neck.

No longer stiff or sore, he put his shirt back on and buttoned it, and headed for the sparring ring to see if Cullen or Cassandra might find the patience to teach him how to use a blighted shield.

-

Healing the Inquisitor came at a great personal cost: her anonymity was gone.

Had anyone else in Skyhold held even a tenth of her talent, she would have sought them out and sent them to him. Maybe she would have risked talking to that old elf, Solas, but he was still off wandering the Exalted Plains by himself, mourning one dead friend when so many other lives still needed protection. Ava was also pretty sure Solas knew more about calling down Firestorm than he did about setting a bone.

She could have kept walking past him to the kitchen, but leaving anyone in such pain was not an option, even if he hadn’t been the most essential leader of the Inquisition.

So Ava had revealed herself to the Herald and offered her healing touch.

Touching Mark Adaar meant she could no longer anonymously protect him from afar. He’d seen her up close and would remember her. They would likely see each other again in the tavern, pass each other on the stairs by Leliana and Cullen’s offices, meet at forward camps in new territories, encounter each other in the armory or stables.

He would treat her like he treated everyone, with genuine respect and interest. He would ask questions, invite conversation and strategizing. They’d get to know each other as comrades in arms and followers of a just cause.

_And I will again befriend a soul I will long outlive._

“You think the price is too high, but you still pay it.”

She came up short to see Cole holding the kitchen door open for her.

“You live to heal and comfort others at the cost of yourself, understand that a blade can be just as necessary as medicine; an ancient justice taught you, sent you out to serve.”

“Not now, Cole.”

He followed her into the dim, warm kitchen, watched her root around for cheese and crackers to take back to the healers’ tents.

“The sun shines on his horns like obsidian—”

“ _Cole . . ._ ” She glared at him.

“He likes you too.”

She sighed.

“That’s not going to make this easier.”

“I want to help.”

“Please, Cole, some things we need to sort out our own.”

“I want to help,” he said again, picking up a bowl of crushed mint from the table and disappearing from sight.

Ava walked back to the tents alone.


	7. No regrets

It went much like she had thought it would. The Herald of Andraste remembered her name, her face. If they happened to be in the courtyard at the same time, he would invite her over to join whatever consultation or sparring session, not seeming to realize it odd for the Inquisitor to be so friendly with a scout who should be reporting to his advisors instead of him. It seemed she saw him at least three times a day and he always noticed her.

Trying to gain some respectful distance, Ava started volunteering for every task Leliana had outside Skyhold, especially if she would be gone for a few days or weeks. It didn’t work: Fate or some mischievous gods made sure Mark was at the stable or in the courtyard every time Ava returned.

She could practically hear Mythal laughing her ass off. It was just the kind of entanglement that would make her cackle, whatever her teachings on the dangers of men.

One evening, after avoiding him for an entire day, Ava lost herself in the crowd at the noisy tavern. She nursed a tankard of ale at the bar between two human warriors who also didn’t feel like talking, just sat with her in polite silence. The patron to her left got up first, immediately replaced by the large, warm, sculpted form of someone entirely too familiar. She didn’t need to look up to know Mark sat beside her.

“Long day?” he asked.

She nodded.

“What’re you drinking?”

“Some kind of Dwarven ale that tastes like fire and lightning. It kind of burns.”

“I’ll try it.”

They chatted for a while like any two colleagues would. She was careful not to be too distant—after all, she did respect him—but it quickly became apparent that he wanted conversation more meaningful than the weather and latest scout report.

He leaned in closer than was necessary to hear her, their elbows touching on the polished bar. Then she saw it in his eyes: admiration. It was more than the respect he showed everyone else, the friendship he offered all agents and pilgrims.

No. She would not lead him down that path if she could help it; his heart was too precious.

She casually rose from her stool and placed some silver on the bar.

“If you will excuse me, Inquisitor, I must prepare for my next assignment.”

He smiled at her. Seated as he was, they were nearly eye-to-eye.

“Until next time, Ava.”

She turned for the door, catching sight of Cassandra. The Seeker looked stricken.

_Shit._

Cassandra spun around and left the tavern, striding toward the armory as fast as she could without running. Ava followed at a more deliberate pace.

She found her alone in the armory at one of the empty tables on the second level. From there, she could look up to the third level and see a small stack of books next to a solitary bedroll on the small upper balcony. It was very austere compared to the rooms and tents Ava and her fellow scouts enjoyed.

She came to stand at the far end of the table. Cassandra stared at the opposite wall like it held all the answers to all the mysteries a mortal had ever questioned. Though the Seeker was half-turned away, Ava could still see a single tear slide down her fair cheek and off her strong jaw onto the table.

 “Cassandra . . .” she spoke gently.

“I am responsible for my own heart.” Her response was steady, but thick. “You need not be concerned.”

Ava sighed and took the seat to Cassandra’s left.

“We cannot always help whom we love, nor who loves us.”

“That is true,” Cassandra turned to face her, eyes shining, “but you should take this chance with him.”

“I—what?”

“You make him happy. And, tonight, I saw it: he makes you happy, too.”

“I . . . ”

“I have no regrets,” Cassandra said. “Neither should you.”


	8. Adamant

Sharing an ale with Ava was the high point of his week. She was witty, wise, and beautiful. They shared war stories and bad jokes. Everything she said and did was fascinating—and she seemed to genuinely enjoy his company.

When he leaned in and let his elbow rest against hers, she’d eased away, but not bolted. Good. Maybe she’d eventually be willing to take a chance to talk to him outside the tavern, walk the ramparts with him alone. All the little impromptu consultations they’d shared with other people present were not enough time in her company. No one else was half as interesting.

It didn’t hurt that she was pretty, too. Her eyes were a blue as a clear glacial stream, inviting a man to drown himself or throw himself from the top of the cliffs into her depths. Her strong, lithe form, fluid grace, and flawless dark skin were enticing.

A few minutes after she’d left the tavern, the the door opened and he glanced over. It was Varric, wearing an uncharacteristically grim expression. With dreaded certainty that he was looking for him, Mark waived to catch his attention, then felt a little foolish for it: other than Bull, Mark was the tallest in the room by quite a bit and he was always easy to find.

Varric met his look and jerked his head to indicate he’d like a private word outside. Mark dropped a gold piece on the bar and left. As soon as he met Varric at the door, the dwarf led him toward the main entrance of the keep.

“Hawke’s back. Josephine asked me to tell you everyone else is in the War Room.”

If Varric was calling the ambassador by her given name instead of _Ruffles_ , the news must be dire. And calling a War Room meeting after dark was a first.

Following up on rumors that Corypheus was tricking the Grey Wardens into raising a demon army, Hawke and Stroud had found a Tevinter Ritual Tower in the Western Approach. They had confirmation that the Grey Wardens were preparing a blood ritual with a Magister. Hawke recommended moving troops in without delay. His report included scaled drawings of the tower.

“It doesn’t look very big,” Mark said.

“My Warden friend thinks this is only a testing ground, before a larger event at Adamant Fortress.”

“Adamant?”

“It’s stood in the Western Approach for generations,” Cullen said, “built before the development of modern siege equipment. Ambassador Montilyet has secured an ally who will gladly loan the Inquisition some of her mobile trebuchet. We can have troops mobilized as soon as tomorrow, if that be your order, Inquisitor.”

“Do it, as quickly and quietly as you can. I will leave at dawn to investigate this ritual tower first, look for weaknesses we can exploit.

“If anyone has objections to attacking the Grey Wardens, now is the time to speak up.”

The room was deathly quiet for a moment before Leliana spoke.

“In the future you saw at Redcliffe, Corypheus conquered Thedas with an army of demons. We cannot let the Grey Wardens do this.”

She hid it well, but those in the inner circle could tell Blackwall’s lack of information had dashed her hopes and Stroud’s reports had devastated her. Though not a Warden herself, Leliana was a veteran of the fifth Blight and had fought side-by-side with the last two Wardens of Ferelden. According to Varric, Leliana had been at Katherine Cousland’s side when the Lady gave up her life to end the archdemon, and Leliana still exchanged letters with King Alistair.

Mark couldn’t imagine the agony she was going through now.

After the meeting, he went to bed alone. He had hideous dreams in which the next Blight consumed the world because the Inquisition had killed all the Grey Wardens.

-

Killing possessed Grey Wardens was one of the worst nightmares Ava had ever lived through, and she had a lot of experience with bad dreams and tragic battles. Then, just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, Mark and his companions ran off alone after Clarel, Erimond, and the dragon. She sprinted after them; it would do no good to fight around the Fade rift in the courtyard if the only person capable of closing it was killed.

She reached the upper level too late to stand with them.

The fast action played slowly in Ava’s mind: Clarel’s spell crashed the red lyrium dragon into the rampart; the Inquisitor, Champion, Stroud, Sera, Bull, and Dorian stumbled along the crumbling walkway; Mark ran back for Stroud, yanked him up by the collar, and they all ran again; they fell off the cliff with dragon and stone.

Ava reached out her hand to try some barrier or wind spell, but Mark had already opened a violent green rift that swallowed him and his five companions. The rift snapped shut, leaving a void of silent blackness.

“No!” Her agonized scream was more shrill than a Terror’s yell. She wanted to throw herself off the ledge after him—them—but there was no rift for her to fall into.

She spun around and ran back to the courtyard where they had defeated a Pride demon. Ava raced right up to Cullen, who was helping Inquisition soldiers and Warden warriors fend off mindless mages and demons that continued to spew from the great rift.

“Cullen!” She didn’t think to use his title. Panic squeezed her chest; her breaths were short and sharp, and her hands, still clutching her enchanted blades, were shaking.

“Cullen! The Inquisitor has physically fallen into the Fade!”

Cullen lopped the head off a Shade and turned to face her.

“Where? When?” he demanded.

“On the ramparts! Clarel’s dead. The dragon fell, too, but flew off. I don’t know where to.”

Her lips trembled and a single tear slid down her cheek.

“ _Mark’s trapped in the Fade!_ ”

“Ava,” Cullen spoke softly and gently, sheathed his sword, and took her shoulders in his hands.

Solas came to stand beside them. The battle continued to rage around them.

“Ava, can you follow them, lead them out?” Cullen asked.

“No! I could maybe dream my way in, but such an interference could rip apart time itself.”

Cullen glanced at Solas, who nodded and answered in his usual lofty way.

“Although such a walk in the Fade would be fascinating, it would not be a wise interruption at this time.”

_Fascinating._

Ava snorted and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“How did they go in?” Cullen asked Ava.

“They were falling into the abyss, Mark opened a rift; it’s like a door, an entrance . . .”

“Is there an exit?”

“Yes!” Her hands were steadier now, her mind clearer. “The rift here in the courtyard: if we keep the demons from overrunning us, Mark can fight his way through and close it!”

“I agree,” Solas said. “Inquisitor Adaar will likely make for the existing rift instead of risking opening another.”

“Then let’s clear him a path.” Cullen released her shoulders, drew his sword, and leapt back into the fight with them.


	9. Memories

He remembered everything.

He’d recovered all the memories Corypheus’ nightmare demon had stolen, but he didn’t have time to think about what it all meant.

Shades, wraiths, pride demons, despair demons, and terrors blocked the way out, along with fearlings: spiders, spiders, spiders! He didn’t mind tanking a pride demon, but all those skittering legs freaked him out.

When their spirit guide collided with the massive spider demon, it was like losing Justinia all over again. Tears blurred Mark’s vision as he and his friends battled an airborne fear demon, terrors, despair, and hundreds—thousands!—of spiders.

Dorian flung lightning into the fear demon just as Mark blasted it with a green rift from his palm and the way was clear. They all ran for the giant rift that led back to the Adamant courtyard, barely dodging to the side in time when the giant spider demon returned.

Both Hawke and Stroud volunteered to stay, keep the way clear for the others to escape.

_I should push the others onward, take this thing down myself._

But the Inquisitor—the Herald of Andraste—was the only one who could seal rifts from the other side. Corypheus’ mistakes had made Mark Adaar his most powerful enemy, so Mark had to survive, return to fight Corypheus.

They left Stroud behind.

When he leapt out of the Fade behind his other four companions, Mark carried with him a new burden: guilt.

Even before he was back on his feet, Ava was at his back, covering him with magic and daggers.

He clutched his left fist to crush the giant rift and all the demons in the courtyard in one, swift movement. She remained with her back pressed to his, weapons out, on guard for any new dangers, even though the battle seemed to be over.

_She’s never left me._

Each memory he had recovered from the Nightmare had been visible to his companions in the Fade. They saw Corypheus and Grey Wardens holding the Divine, saw Justinia swat the orb from the monster’s grasp, saw her push Mark ahead out of the Fade at the expense of her own life.

In those recovered memories, Mark had been the only one to notice a lone soul in the shadows: a blue-eyed rogue poised to cover him with barrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Spiders, spiders, spiders!” is a reference to Admiral Tali'Zorah vas Normandy’s exclamation if you take her on the mission to rescue the missing Krogan scouts in Mass Effect 3.


	10. Confessions on the Storm Coast

Solas and Cole thought the Inquisitor too merciful in his handling of the Grey Wardens, but Ava understood the need to keep such a dangerous loose end within view. Exile would put the survivors out of the Inquisition’s reach and nearer the enemy’s clutches.

The mood at Skyhold remained somber for several days after Adamant. From now on, the Wardens would have an even harder time convincing the rest of the world that it was their right to defeat the Blight by any means necessary. She had a feeling those treaties granting diplomatic immunity would soon be burned.

_Stupid._

The Grey Wardens had been unforgivably stupid. She’d always held the Grey Wardens in high esteem. She had fought by their side in more than one Blight, but she had not been at Ostagar, where the last of her Warden friends had been slaughtered along with Ferelden’s Warden Commander Duncan and King Cailan Theirin. Had Ava not been on other business for her Lady that day, she, too, would have perished amongst the darkspawn.

Hoping to pull herself out of such morose thoughts, she stepped forward when Commander Cullen requested volunteers to escort the Inquisitor’s party to the Storm Coast. Fighting darkspawn and clearing out a Red Templar stronghold would be a lot less depressing than killing Wardens. And seeing Lace Harding always brightened her day.

-

Mark yearned to talk with Ava, see how she was doing. When she’d guarded his back at Adamant after he popped out of the rift, he had felt her trembling against him. There hadn’t been enough privacy there to talk, so he’d settled for having her within view until he was sure she was back on her horse on the way to Skyhold, surrounded by loyal soldiers.

Every day since their return, his advisors had kept him in the war room from pre-dawn until well after the dinner hour, dealing with the aftermath of Adamant. The Wardens’ thwarted plan had some serious repercussions—not as bad as loosing Corypheus with an army of demons, but, still, dire.

He popped into the tavern each evening before close, but did not find her. He didn’t see her among the healers’ tents, either, but he could feel that she was still somewhere in Skyhold. That feeling was the only thing that made each day bearable.

When he mounted a Ferelden Forder—none of Horsemaster Dennet’s animals seemed burned by his Qunari bulk—to head for the Storm Coast, he was relieved to see Ava walking toward him from the kitchen. She smiled when she saw him, scattering the storm clouds from his chest and replacing them with sunshine.

Ava stopped at the first stable stall to sneak an apple to a mount someone had already saddled, a Gwaren Land-Hammer that snuffled at her hand. The animal gulped the fruit down and nudged at the stall door.

“Easy, buddy, they’re not going to leave without us.” She kissed the giant war nug’s nose, released it from the stall, and mounted to ride over to Mark’s side.

“Nick any other last-minute snacks?”

“No,” she laughed. “But I did find Sera making off with some pies.”

“What’s she need multiple pies for?”

“I didn’t think to ask; I was too busy laughing.”

“About what?”

“She said, ‘You’ve got nice tits, but I wouldn’t wank ya cuz yer an elf.’”

Mark doubled over in a coughing fit.

“That was my reaction, too.”

“Disappointed?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Not really. I’m not into elves either.”

She gave him a cheeky wink and trotted toward the front gate.

_Not into elves._

But, otherwise she’d be interested in Sera—in women? Shit, had he been pining for someone who wouldn’t be interested? Wait, no, she was messing with him. Was she?

He watched her ride for the gate, where she paused and looked over her shoulder with a knowing smile, a heat in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Yes, she had definitely been messing with him. And, yes, she was definitely interested.

Now only if he could avoid doing something asinine before they found a chance to talk about it.

-

Mark was pleased: Closing darkspawn tunnels was a crap-ton more rewarding than killing Wardens, and clearing the Red Templars out of the dwarven port was a damn sight nicer than seeing them overrun Haven.

Seeing Lace Harding again really brightened his day, too, but the best part was having Ava with them. Cullen had sent several scouts and soldiers along to bolster their hold on the Storm Coast and support the Inquisitor’s party as they moved from camp to camp. She wasn’t at every skirmish with him and his companions, but Ava took a watch at every camp Mark visited and was often off on other scout duties during the day.

He’d been glad to have her by his side this afternoon, jumping in and out of shadows, again saving him from a Red Templar Shadow with those creepy pointed arms. Back at camp, he authorized an extra cup of mead and serving of rations for everyone to celebrate the liberation of the port, then looked around for Ava.

Varric caught his eye and nodded his head toward a steep path down to the shore. Mark grinned at him and made for the path. When he was still a ways up the ridge, he could see her small form sitting on a flat-topped boulder half-buried by the wild incoming tide. She sat with her legs overhanging the edge, the occasional wave jumping up over her boots.

Despite the noise of the surf, her excellent elven hearing must have caught the tumble of gravel under his boots; she cocked her head to the side as he neared her seat.

He stood beside her, the water lapping the toes of his boots. The smile faded from his lips when he saw her face. She watched the water with sorrow.

He laid a hand on her shoulder.

“You okay?”

She shrugged. His concern increased; he had never seen her unsure before.

He waded into the water to stand in front of her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just remembering some Warden friends who didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. The last of them were killed ten years ago.”

_Ostagar._

She didn’t need to say it.

He watched her in silence for a few moments while she watched the waves approaching out of the misty forever that was the sea. He didn’t know the best way to proceed, so he went for the direct approach.

“You heard I recovered my memories.”

She looked to him but he couldn’t read her expression.

“You tried to save Justinia, then disappeared. Between the Conclave and the fall of Haven, what happened?”

She looked back out to sea.

“Frozen in time. It’s excruciating. I don’t recommend it. Sealing the Breach knocked me loose again. Could we talk about something else, please? Even memories of my dead friends are less painful than what happened at the Temple.”

“I’m sorry.”

She glared at him and he smiled.

“I know, it’s not my fault, so I shouldn’t apologize, but I still wish I could erase your hurt.”

“I’ll live through it.”

“Alone? It needn’t be that way, especially for someone as amazing as you.”

She looked at him wide-eyed and open mouthed. It was the first time he’d seen her surprised.

“Even after those Templars hit us with spell purge, you could have flipped me over your head and gutted them,” his whisper was filled with awe and gentleness, like she was a treasure and not a conquest or challenge.

“When I look at you . . . I see . . . I see goodness, and power, rightness—no, what is the word I’m looking for?” He cupped her hand in his like he might crush hers if he weren’t careful, massaged her brown palm with his grey thumb.

“Wisdom.” He looked into her crystal blue eyes.

Her smile was crooked with just the smallest show of straight white teeth, little lines next to her mouth and eyes emphasizing her connection to him and his thoughts. She was wise, wise enough not to be proud of being wise, wise enough to still consider herself equal with everyone instead of above anyone—or below anyone.

And the world hated her for knowing she was not inferior to anyone else.

The world hated her for her magic, for her ears; for how she helped Cullen protect refugees when nobles would rather the common folk be run off their lands to starve in the wilderness.

His heart twisted in his chest, filled with joy by her mere existence, and sorrow for the pains she endured, and fear for the hate that would try to destroy her. They feared him and gave him a wide berth, his size and smarts compensating for his average skills as a warrior. They mistook her for easily-crushed prey.

He slowly raised his free hand to brush the back of his broad fingers against her cheek. She leaned into his fingers, closed her eyes, and sighed.

That little sound pierced his chest like a lance. He closed his eyes, leaned forward, and paused just shy of her lips with their breath mingling. It was forever, and still not long enough, that he listened to her breathing. Then he slowly opened his gold eyes to find her watching him, lips slightly parted and smiling again, eyes deep with the answer for the question he hadn’t even hoped to articulate in his own mind.

He still cupped her left hand in his right, held the back of his other fingers against her cheek. She eased her hand up along his left wrist and gripped it, sending happy lightning through his arm into his chest.

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

Oh, she was so soft, yet as unrelenting as iron, warm and cool, fire and water all at the same time. His head swam and he knew where he was.

_With Ava._

It was just a light brush of lips, but it rocked him as much as the conclave explosion.

She eased back her head and released his wrist, leaving her left hand in his right as she shimmied herself closer to the edge of her stone seat, so their knees could touch.

The surf was coming in faster, washing up his back and over her lap where they held hands, his body sheltering her face from the spray. She slid her feet around his knees, drifted him flush against her, wrapped her free hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a tempest of tongues. They clung to each other and delved within with more force than any wave that had ever broken this shore. When the next wall of water crashed over them, he planted his free hand on her stone seat to keep them upright, sealed in a breathless kiss.

When they came up for air, he didn’t drift far, just rested his forehead on hers. With a sigh, she gave his neck a little squeeze and slid off the stone to stand. He didn’t move back; they remained toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, though he was a good three heads taller. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek to his chest, where his heart beat harder and faster than the stormy waves on the rock.

“You’ll be needed back at camp.” She whispered it, like a terrible secret that shouldn’t be voiced, even though no one was around to hear. He heard, despite the crashing surf.

“You’re needed, too.”

Not just by her fellow scouts, but by him. He couldn’t choke out more, but he could see the knowledge in her eyes

_I need you._

She nodded, eased from his arms, and headed back to camp.

He stared after her for a moment before following, unsure where this new aspect of their relationship fit in the world, and determined to make it fit even if he had to tear another hole in the sky. He pushed that grim thought away to focus on the desperate joy they’d shared on the rough shore. Smiling to himself, he slogged back up onto the bank, ready to head toward camp.

A glimmer from above caught his eye. It was probably one of those creepy skulls “harvested” from undefended Tranquil. He looked up.

His first kiss— _kisses_ —with Ava had not been as private as he had thought.

There, up on the cliff, was Varric, along with Solas and Bull. Varric and Bull were laughing and waving their congratulations, but Solas, instead of his usual superior frown, was glaring red daggers.

-

“You cannot do this!” Solas hissed.

Deep in the dark, five minutes after she’d relieved the watch before her, Solas confronted Ava at her post near the skull overlooking the camp. She hoped the waves and hard rain covered his voice. It had been sunny during the mid-day meal and their voices had echoed off the rock, up and down the shore.

“I’ve got the second watch and I won’t abandon my post.”

“You know very well that is not what I meant. You—you and that— _Qunari_! You should not be fraternizing with the Herald.”

She fade-stepped quicker than he could blink, and she was behind him, grabbing one of his wrists and holding one of her blades against his throat.

“You threatening the Herald?” She asked it like they were talking about the weather, but her hands were poised to kill.

In the heat of the moment, both elves had reverted to Mark Adaar’s earliest religious title.

Solas stiffened, but didn’t struggle or try to mind blast her, something she would have done in his place, even though she was pretty sure that a mind blast attack wouldn’t work on Solas or herself.

“No.” He returned to his calm way of speaking, with his ever-present superior tone.

“Do you have a problem with him being Qunari?”

“He’s Tal-Vashoth, not Qunari, and respects free will and thought. So, no.”

“So you have a problem with me kissing the Herald.”

Solas hissed in through his teeth and didn’t answer. Ava was tempted to apply a little pressure or scratch to make him bleed, but that would be petty. She didn’t need to: She’d already heard the truth in his first answer and knew he meant no danger to the Herald—no _physical_ danger, that is.

She pushed him away—of course he didn’t have the decency to stumble, smooth ass that he was—and he turned to silently face her.

“So you have a problem with _me_ kissing _him_ , specifically.”

Solas pursed his lips, folded his arms, and gave one swift nod. She saw the flick of lust in his eyes before he hid it.

“Creators, Solas!” She sputtered and threw out the worst curse she knew, “Dread Wolf take you!”

He flinched. Finally, a decent, normal reaction.

“You and I will never happen, even if I knew you wanted me for more than my blood. Arlathan is gone forever. There is no calling it back. Ever. The elder blood is gone forever.”

He dropped his arms and gave her an appraising look he hadn’t before. Perhaps he was starting to guess her age. Definitely not a wise thing for him to do. She was sure their tempers would be evenly matched and no one on the Storm Coast would survive if they clashed.

“Y _ou_ think you have some right to _me_ and what I do. You don’t.”

She ran a hand over her face to purge the magic there and heard him gasp. Maybe she should have started the conversation with this trick. The Mythal Vallaslin disappeared from her forehead. With another flick of her wrist she put her magic “makeup” back on.

“It’s better for the world to see me as a Dalish Elf, better for you to see me as such. I don’t know your true name, but the People need you—I hear it in the whispers of the trees and water—However, I swear by Mythal, if you harm the Herald, I will _skin_ you.”

Solas laughed, a deep chuckle of genuine amusement, his animosity gone.

“I would never think to challenge or court a true apostle of Mythal,” he said lightly.

“If she were here, she’d skin us both. Go back to your tent, you dog. I am supposed to be on watch.”

Several hours later, relieved by the next watch, she went to her bedroll. She was dismayed to see her fingers tremble as she turned down the cover: She usually had steady hands in the face of anger and fear, could shake off any surprise, but it was beyond dangerous to meet one as old as Solas—or whatever his name was—and it reminded her of her own longevity. She was younger than he, yet remembered a time when all elves knew the origins of the then-dreaded Vallaslin, and she would outlive any Dalish.

If a quick blade, true arrow, or stiff spell didn’t kill them both, she would be around to mourn Mark long after the long-lived Qunari was dust reunited with the Maker.

A shadow fell over her. Her beloved stepped forward.

“Was Solas pestering you? I saw you on the hill and didn’t want to interrupt.”

She snorted.

“Did you see me threaten to slit his throat?”

“No,” he snickered. “How’d he take it?”

“As aloof as ever.

 “Let’s pretend we have some privacy.” She took his hand and led him away into the trees, close enough to hear if there was trouble at camp, but not close enough for anyone at the communal fire to overhear them.

“He was concerned about me throwing myself at the Herald.”

“I’ll always catch you,” he grinned, “but that’s not what you meant. He jealous?”

“I’m glad one of us thinks it funny. Yes, he didn’t say so directly, but showed symptoms of jealousy, until . . .”

“Until . . . ?”

She sighed and looked him in the eye.

“I’m not Dalish.”

She ran a hand over her face to remove the fake Vallaslin and reveal her natural skin. Only the slightest flicker of his eyes indicated his surprise. He ran his hands along her cheeks, down her shoulders and arms to cradle her elbows.

“Does the change hurt?”

“No.” She was relieved to have him initiating touch again. “I am a loner, and this magic makeup makes it easier to converse with elves and humans alike.”

“And why would Solas find that less attractive?” His voice was soft, concerned for her, all humor gone.

“I’m older, not a shemlen, not some adolescent fool he can control,” the steel in her answer didn’t completely hide the tremor of vulnerability. “Therefore, I’m no longer attractive.”

He bent down to gently suckle her lower lip, feather breathy kisses along her chin, cheek, forehead, before pulling back just enough to look into her eyes again.

“I thought shemlen meant human.”

“It means _quick children_. Older elves sometimes use it to refer to Dalish or city elves because their lives are so much shorter. It’s not a compliment: it’s more to emphasize a lack of sophistication than a life span.”

“You think you’re too old for me?”

She shook her head, but her lips trembled and unshed tears pooled in her crystal eyes.

“I’m trying not to mourn you while we still have so much future in front of us. I’ll still be this strong after your spirit leaves your body.”

“I’ll take every moment. Does it hurt you too much to stay? I love you, but I’ll leave you be if it gives you peace.”

How could she not love a man who valued her heart more than his own?

In answer, she threw her arms around him and dragged him down for a feral kiss full of tongue and teeth. With a moan, he crushed her against him and squeezed her rear end with his wide hands. He shuffled backward into a deeper shadow of the trees and they sank to their knees, kissing and groping between desperate breaths.

Sharing senseless whispers, they lay on the ground and helped each other disrobe in the deep, comforting shadows of the night, oblivious to the bits of rock poking up from beneath their bed of twigs and leaves. Hands raced across skin, hearts thundered against each other, mouths wandered to new, sweet places. When they finally came together, all they could do was whisper each others’ name.

And time was forgotten.

-

“Just in case that little display didn’t make it clear: I love you, too.”

Warmth spread through his chest.

“I got the message, but it’s nice to hear you say it.”

He lay on his back on the stones under the trees, one arm under his neck, with her wrapped along his side. She sighed and snuggled closer. Even as she rested, he could feel the magic thrumming through her.

“I’ve got my own tent, you know. I could offer you a real mat to lie on. We could rest comfortably there until noon.”

“That’s a gracious offer, Mark. Are you concerned for my comfort, or do you think we’ll scandalize everyone if we’re still lying here naked when dawn comes?”

“Oh. I really was only thinking about how a sharp rock is poking my bum.”

They giggled and hurriedly dressed, not caring about getting all the buttons in the right holes, and snuck back into his tent together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the mood? The really NSFW parts are in chapter 12.
> 
> Check out the war nug at http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Gwaren_Land-Hammer


	11. Joys and the healing of heartache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ava and Leliana’s thoughts on the Inquisitor’s new romance. Ava finds someone who needs a shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Loosely alludes to someone having unsafe previous experience with bondage. The following is one fictional character’s viewpoint. If you have questions or need help, please consider contacting a licensed healthcare professional who specializes in your area of concern.

Whatever dangers they faced, nothing diminished the joy that took residence in Ava’s heart. When she was off scouting for Sister Nightingale in the Wilds, she carried Mark’s smile in her mind. When she was training mage and Templar recruits in cooperative combat in the Hinterlands for Commander Cullen, she felt the memory of Mark’s touch in her hands. When she knew Mark was off without her to face demon-spewing rifts, she held his undying love in her own chest.

Whatever ills they faced or tragedies cried for justice, she was again hopeful, reminded of what they fought _for_ , not just what they fought against.

Mark and Ava didn’t announce their relationship, but didn’t try to hide it either. They went about their separate duties. Sometimes they walked the ramparts hand-in-hand to discuss recent developments. If they were both at Skyhold at the same time and one had to leave sooner than the other, anyone with eyes could see them kiss goodbye at the stables before the Inquisitor or the Scout rode out. No one interrupted them when they were alone together, and no one ever asked her about their time together—except Mark himself.

“Do you prefer your own private space?” he’d asked her their first night together, after moving from the trees and naked rocks to put their bedrolls together in his tent.

“Not from you.”

“Would you like to claim my room as ours?”

“Absolutely.”

She had a small, private room on one of the balconies above the main hall. Scout Lace Harding and another of Leliana’s key people had the other two rooms on that balcony. It was a pleasant honor to have their own rooms, especially since they were there so infrequently to claim such valuable space. Honor or no, she wasn’t going to miss out on sharing with Mark. She was going to give up that private bedroom.

As soon as she returned to Skyhold, Ava went straight to Leliana’s office at the top of the rotunda to present her Storm Coast report. Mark, Varric, Bull, and Solas were checking in with Lace about rescue efforts in the Fallow Mire and would be back in a few days.

“Anything else?” the Spymaster asked, voice formal, lips twitching in amusement.

“What do you mean, My Lady?”

“You’ve called the Inquisitor ‘Mark’ thirteen times in the last five minutes.”

“Oh!” She was blushing, something she hadn’t done in centuries—if ever. Why was she embarrassed? They were all adults and she hadn’t shared anything inappropriate.

“That is the end of my field report, My Lady.

“I have, however, found new accommodations in Skyhold and my private room will be ready for a new occupant this afternoon.”

Leliana grinned and clapped her on the shoulder.

“Congratulations. Have fun.”

“We will—we do—I mean—oh! Good day, My Lady.”

Ava had given her a hurried bow and bolted for her balcony room to pack her minimal belongings and move into Mark’s room—their room—even though he wouldn’t be home for a few days. When he’d finally returned with the news that the Avvar chieftain’s renegade son was defeated and all the Fallow Mire scouts rescued, he’d been so tired he could barely drag his feet up the stone stairs to their room, but his smile for her was bright and she’d helped him out of his heavy armor, washed his face, and slept in his arms.

Now, six weeks and four missions later—and only the gods knew how many missions Mark had faced—she sat alone at the bar in the noisy Skyhold tavern and waited for his return from Halamshiral, grateful Commander Cullen had not drafted her for the trip to the Winter Palace, a viper’s nest she didn’t have the patience for.

“You’re sure you don’t want to go?” Mark had asked, kissing the inside of her wrist as they hugged good-bye in their room.

“Positive. I’ll have Arbor Wilds intel for you by the time you get back.”

“Hmm.”

He’d kissed her, they ended up back in bed, and he’d barely had time to get his breeches back on frontwards before running down to the stables to depart for Grande Duchess’ masquerade.

The memory made her smile and stare off into space, forgetting the tankard she held half way to her lips.

“Mayhem!” The Iron Bull shouted from his company’s corner and pounded the table. Sera frowned and shook her head, but Scout Harding was laughing along with the Chargers.

“I’d be up for it!” the dwarf said loud enough for the entire tavern to listen in. “How far do you think you could toss me?”

_Good old Lace._

Ava shook her head and smiled to herself again as she rose from her seat. Feeling generous, she tossed a gold coin on the bar on her way out. She strolled over and leaned her elbows on top of the half-wall overlooking the healers’ tents, enjoying the crisp mountain air, watching the stars come out to reveal the same, enduring constellations she knew from her childhood, a time before the Chantry.

_Quiet nights, eternal stars: That’s what we fight for. And love._

She snorted at herself.

_And I’m getting dotty and sentimental in my old age._

She gradually became aware of hushed voices below her. She looked back down to the earth. From the upper courtyard she inhaled wood smoke from the healers’ fire. Orange shadows danced across their tents and the front gate. Two human scouts sat warming themselves by the healers’ fire. One was a fair-skinned blonde with curls to her waist; the other was as brown as Ava, with rows of gorgeous black plaits woven in intricate patterns and pinned up on top her head.

“It will be fun,” the blonde said.

“I’m not sure.” Their voices were low, but the other woman glanced around like she didn’t want to be overheard.

“Just look at the Inquisitor and his lady friend,” the blonde continued.

“How does that even work? I mean, the size difference . . .”

The blonde barked out a laugh. “I think the size difference would be a _plus_.”

Apparently, just because people in general didn’t talk to Ava about her relationship with Mark, it didn’t mean they weren’t speculating about _very specific_ details of their intimacy. She was surprised to find herself amused, rather than insulted. She couldn’t resist giving the two young scouts a little poke.

“It _is_ rather wonderful.”

The two gasped and jumped to their feet, gaping up at her.

“I’m sorry, Messere!” the woman with the pretty braids bowed. “It was not our place.”

 “Don’t worry about it.” Ava smiled kindly. “As you were.”

She turned to head for the main stairs into the keep, but stopped short when she heard the blonde giggle to her friend, “See? I told ya. His door’s unlocked. He’s got the rope; I’ve got the blindfolds. Let’s go!”

“Wait!” Ava swung back and poked a stern finger in their direction. “You two stay right there.”

She strode down the stairs that ran along the front wall and beckoned them to join her in the guardroom to the right of the portcullis. A low fire and a few candles flickered inside as she shut the door.

“Are you two considering a rendezvous with the Iron Bull?”

The dark-haired scout looked at her feet, but the blonde raised her chin in defiance.

“Yes, we’re all adults here!”

 _Some of us more so than others._ Ava suddenly felt very _old_ in a way that had nothing to do with the passing of years. She didn’t let her mental sigh escape her lips. Instead, she set a steely stare on the two young women in front of her.

“Firstly, coercing a friend—or anyone—into saying yes still means no. Don’t do that. Secondly, what you’re contemplating tonight has nothing to do with size or race—Qunari, human, dwarf or elf. Do either of you even know anything about safewords?”

“About what?” the blonde asked, puzzled.

From the wide eyes of her friend, Ava guessed the more reluctant of the two actually had more information, maybe even first-hand experience she didn’t dare voice, and had serious reservations about such activities.

“What do you think it means?” Ava softened her voice, inviting confidences. She kept her eyes on the blonde, trying to keep her attention off the panicked friend.

Quiet grew around the room as the three women stood in silence, barely able to make out each others’ faces in the dying embers of the fire and weak flickers of candles.

“It was just supposed to be a bit of fun,” the blonde finally whispered toward her toes. “You think—you think it’s not safe?” She looked up at Ava.

“I don’t know. My heart tells me you’re rushing into something you don’t know much about. I worry someone will crush your spirit.”

Ava gently stepped forward and took both of her hands in a friendly squeeze.

“Your life is yours to live. Whatever you do, you’ll still have my respect.”

“Thank you, Messere Ava, I will think about it.” The blonde smiled and squeezed her hands before stepping back and turning toward her still-quiet companion.

“Come on, there’s at least a dozen scouts in the armory for Wicked Grace. They’ll deal us in.”

“I’ll catch up later.”

“Oh, if you’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. See you later.” The young woman practically skipped out and shut the door.

With deliberate, unhurried movements, Ava made her way in front of the dying embers and sat on the thick fur rug set in front of the fireplace, feet flat on the floor, resting her elbows on her upturned knees. After a moment’s hesitation, the other scout sat beside her and stared into the dim orange glow.

They sat in silence for several minutes before Ava heard a sniff. She gently raised her right arm and tentatively put a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder—they looked the same age, but the elf was oh so many more generations older, had seen this heartache played out in oh so many other places—and the human threw herself into Ava’s arms, sobbing. Her tears ran for an hour, twice as long as the dwindling fire, and she and Ava were left with only a single little candle flame to penetrate the darkness. Ava stroked a hand over the other scout’s braided hair, down her back, over and over, until the younger woman gave one last shuddering hiccup and sat up.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You are precious and loved, my friend.”

_You are not the first voice to cry in the night. When one of her apostles holds you, Mythal hears you._

“I’m Althea.”

“Althea, may you again find joy.”

“You’ve given me peace. That’s a good place to start.”

-

Mark came home late. Driven by an inexplicable need to see Ava, he had compelled his party to ride on in the dark. He found her awake in their bedroom: she had pulled the loveseat over in front of the fireplace; her bare feet rested on a pile of silky furs and she stared unseeing into the flames.

He slipped off his boots, set them by the stairwell, and joined her on the couch in front of the fire, wrapping his left arm around her waist so she could lean on him.

She sighed.

“Peace for the hurting is more important than retribution.”

“It is,” he agreed. “Usually.”

She frowned up at him and he squirmed.

“Uh, I stabbed the Grande Duchess in front of everyone at the ball; she planned to assassinate the Empress for Corypheus.”

Ava’s eyes widened and she laughed— _laughed_. That had not been the reaction he expected.

“Mark, that’s necessity, not retribution.”

Still smiling, she reached up to run her fingers along his stubbled jaw.

“What other surprises did we find in Orlais?”

 _We_. He shivered with pleasure to hear her use the word.

“The Empress assigned a liaison to the Inquisition. Lady Morrigan has returned with us to Skyhold.”

Recognition flashed in her eyes, though her finger kept their steady ministrations along his face.

“You know her?”

“I have heard the name, though she probably has not encountered mine.” She leaned in to breathe a kiss into his neck.

“Any reason for concern?” He ran a hand along her hip, explored further down.

“No more than the usual when dealing with us mages.”

“I thought you were a rogue.” He kissed the corner of her mouth.

“I am, so don’t expect me to dress like your new liaison: it leaves the torso a bit too exposed during combat.”

The image of Ava, barely covered by a drape of purple fabric, flashed across his mind and made him instantly hard. He envisioned the flash of light against her rich skin and fluid muscles as she called down fire and plunged daggers into an opponent. He barely had enough brain cells working above the belt to reply appropriately:

“I like the way you dress.” He slipped his hand under her bottom, gave her a squeeze.

“Hmm. And I’m thinking we both better get undressed.”

She guided his mouth down for a slow, deep kiss that spread heat from his tongue, through the rest of his body into his loins. They carefully undressed each other and made languid love on the furs in front of the fire. Then they slept as they were.

Present in the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It is rather wonderful" is a paraphrase of "It was rather wonderful," Sean Connery's response to the Austrian spy in The Last Crusade (1989).


	12. The War Room (You know my name)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bedroom, War Room. NSFW. :) And for those who may be frustrated with intimacies thusfar being mostly from his point of view, the latter part of this chapter is totally hers.

He woke in a cocoon of happy heat.

Her magic fire was still high in their hearth, casting a circle of orange, red, and yellow around the thick, silky furs that sheltered their naked bodies from the cold stone floor. The gray, watery dawn creeping in through the closed glass balcony doors could not penetrate the stronger circle of light she’d kept burning all night in her sleep; nor could the cold mountain drafts that snuck sharp fingers around the window panes reach their uncovered skin.

He lay on his back with her flush against his left side, her left leg over his thigh, the dark curls between her legs pressed up against his hip, her cheek and hand resting on his chest as she slept on. Last night, she’d let him loose her hair from its tight wrap and he’d reveled in the blond-white thickness of it, running his fingers through and through from her scalp to where it cascaded over her hips. Now her hair ran down along his chest, over where her hip rested on his, and pooled behind her on the furs. In this light, it looked white-hot, like the center of the strongest flame in a forge or the sun at its highest on a clear summer day, a molten pool of life cascading over her flawless skin.

He felt her soft eyelashes feathering against his bare chest as she woke. It sent lightning through all his cells and ran fire down into his groin, with no blanket to hide his growing interest. He hoped . . . well, even in the early morning, she was usually very open to sharing affection—and more.

He smoothed his left hand down her scalp and shoulder, pulled her tighter against his side, and she squeezed his hip tight between her thighs, making him gasp. She pressed a smile into his chest, a soft kiss, and started tracing a single finger up and down his chest, along his sternum, over every rib; a fingernail up and over his pert right nipple, making him groan. Every light touch sent shudders through his body. She continued tracing the right side of his chest with a single dexterous finger, her warm cheek resting on his other side and her warm breath passing across his midsection. Every time the delicious shocks faded into a sweet smolder, she again squeezed his hip tightly between her thighs, jolting him back up the scale of pleasure.

“ _Ava!_ ” he finally cried out.

“Hmm,” she lazily answered, smoothing her left palm across his rippling pectorals.

She lifted her head, gave him a knowing smile, slid her hand down to hold his right hip as she got to her knees and shifted over to straddle him above the waist. The weight of her on him was delicious—but still not close enough to taking in his throbbing need—and the slick readiness between her legs was sliding across his abdomen, taunting his hunger for her.

He gripped her hips, but she had other ideas. She gently took him by the wrists, guided his hands up over her own ribs, placing one over her breast and the other up along the curve of the back of her neck under the curtain of her hair. He massaged the pads of his thick, strong, calloused fingers along the hairline of her neck; she arched her back and purred. He palmed her breast, gave her a gentle pinch with his forefinger and thumb, and she arched her back again, grinding her hips against his lower abs—still not close enough—

“ _Ava!_ ” he gasped out. “I’m—”

She bent down to silence him with a strong thrust of her tongue into his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his hands to the floor, tangled his fists in the furs, writhing, trying to hold on to something to keep him from teetering over the edge before her.

Then her mouth was gone. He whimpered in protest, raised his head to see her easing downward.

Holding his stare, she took him in slowly. More slowly than he moved when he wanted to be mindful of her smaller size. He could see it in her clear, crystal eyes: She didn’t need to be careful; she was purposely edging him into a mindless pool of need.

She gave one hard thrust and then stilled, watching his wide-eyed shock. She gave one, hard clench of her muscles around him, leaving him huffing and grasping at the furs.

“You might want to hold on,” she was laughing— _laughing_ —even with her eyes bright with desire.

He grabbed her hips and she rode him harder and higher. She pistoned them together with a speed and strength that blew his breath away. All he could do was hold on.

Her triumphant cry at reaching her own peak finally threw him over the precipice of release.

He still gripped her hips. However spent, he didn’t think he’d be able to pry his fingers loose any time soon. He didn’t have to figure it out; after resting chest-to-chest with him for a moment, she rolled over on her back onto the furs next to him.

He had enough presence of mind left to enjoy the way her breast cushioned against the side of his ribs. With a contented sigh, he took her right hand in his left. He hoped she didn’t think it odd to just hold hands after such an energetic display. He liked holding hands with her. A lot. Anytime, anywhere.

He smiled when she naturally took his hand and caressed his thumb with her own.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Yes, it is rather, isn’t it?”

“I’m thinking I’ll need a hearty breakfast before reporting to the Spymaster.”

“Oh, second helpings, at least.”

She understood his entendre and elbowed him. “You couldn’t possibly be recovered enough already for that.”

“I certainly will be by the time our mid-day meal comes around.”

She hummed in agreement. “Very well, I’ll find you then.”

“Unless I find you first.”

She laughed and got up to dress. He propped himself up on his elbows to watch her, his long, muscular legs stretched out in front of him along the furs in front of the fire.

She poured chilly water from the pitcher into the little wash bowl. Steam rose from the bowl when she touched it with her magic fingers to dampen a cloth to wash her face and body. His mouth went dry when she ran the cloth beneath her breasts and across her thighs, but he knew better than to offer to help with her sponge bath when she was on her way out to her duties—perhaps she would like some help tonight.

He threw a glance at the empty copper tub she’d set up in front of the balcony. He’d have to scrunch his knees up to sit in it, but he was sure she’d enjoy sitting on his lap, seeing how much steam they could generate without magic.

When he returned his gaze to her, she was wrapping her long hair round and round her hand. He lost count of how many pins and leather straps it took to wind it tight and secure her bun. Her naked neck was gorgeous.

She quickly slid on her undergarments, prowler armor, scout hood, boots, and blades, before blowing him a kiss and breezing down the stairs.

He groaned and smacked the back of his head down into the furs, fighting the urge to run after her naked, swoop her up over his shoulder, and cart her back up to their room, no matter who was present in the main hall.

_Get a grip. You’ll be with her in a few hours._

-

Their lovemaking had always been spontaneous, not planned, and Ava was having a hard time dealing with this new anticipation. For once, she was grateful instead of sad that they didn’t keep Mabari at Skyhold. They’d all be sniffing after her, revealing to everyone just how much she wanted to be with the Inquisitor _right now_.

_You’ll be with him in a few hours. Get a grip._

She went about her duties, meetings, and reports, trying to pay extra attention and not let a glassy look come to her eyes.

When the mid-day bell rang for the change of the guard, she grabbed some jerky and a wine skin from the kitchen, pausing to stare at the door leading to the lower level, remembering when Mark had taken her down for a tour of the winery. He’d held her hand in that warm and caring way of his while he talked about where he’d found each bottle—until she’d yanked him down into a kiss and dragged him into the little library next door. Ignoring the cobwebs and musty books, she’d sat him down in the only chair and straddled his lap, grinding against him through their clothes and kissing his mouth so deeply he barely had enough breath to beg they go up to bed.

Heat flashed across her breasts and a fresh wave of desire flowed between her legs. She quickly swallowed the jerky and ran the half-full wineskin up to their room for later. She took a moment to wash the morning’s dust from her face and neck with trembling hands—since when did just thinking about loving him make her shake?—and headed back down to the main hall to start her search for him.

She exited their door just as he left the Ambassador’s office.

Their eyes immediately locked on each other and he jerked his head toward the door behind him. She gave him a puzzled smile as she approached.

“What are you—”

He took her hands in his and walked backward through the door, pulling her inside. He closed the door with more force than necessary and pinned her against it.

“Oh, Mark! What about—”

“Everyone’s gone,” he rasped into the side of her throat, drawing his thick tongue along her pounding pulse.

He clutched her bottom in his hands and lifted her up so they were eye level for more kisses, a warring of tongues that had her writhing against the solid door at her back.

“Further in,” he mumbled against her lips, but it didn’t register until he’d carried her up the little stairwell, down the hall around piles of rubble, and into the War Room. He didn’t sway or misstep once, even with her clinging around his neck and waist, greedily devouring his mouth.

She was too distracted by him to be shocked by his choice of room, but there was a serious draft that rushed through and scattered the papers someone had left on the War Table.

“It’s chill—”

He filled her mouth with more kisses promising plenty of heat.

She found herself flat against the inner War Room door. Keeping her mouth busy with his own, he snicked the lock with his left hand as he snuck his right down the front of her breeches to massage the curls between her thighs.

She groaned his name into his mouth.

He suckled her lower lip and eased back. She leaned back on the door and gripped his shoulders for support as he bent to remove her boots. He ran his hands up her calves and hips, planted a quick kiss on her inner thigh through her breeches as he rose back to her mouth.

She’d left her hood and breastplate upstairs, but still wore her green leather jacket and undergarments. He unbuttoned the jacket and unlaced her shirt, rolled her breast band down her ribs, and took her right breast into his large mouth.

He sucked. Hard.

“Oh!” She couldn’t seem to manage anything other than vowel sounds.

He ran little, pert kisses down her exposed skin and then across the bottom half of the now-laceless shirt, dragging her breeches and smallclothes off as he went down, tossing them aside. She gasped as he lifted her up to sit on his left arm and look into his molten gold eyes. She hooked her right leg around him, but found him holding the other in place down against the door.

“Just like that,” he whispered against her lips, and slid his palm up her inner thigh.

Her hips jerked forward of their own volition and he chuckled.

He massaged her thigh in slow, circular motions with his thumb, working toward the damp heat of her swollen, ready netherlips. He brushed his thumb against her and she cried out, smacking her head against the door. He sucked at her throat while he worked his fingers inside her: One. Two. Three. He flicked his thumb against her clit and she skyrocketed up, came crashing down like an avalanche that shattered her body and mind.

He seemed to think that chuckle-worthy, too.

He helped her regain her footing, leaned her against the door with a gentle kiss.

“I’ll be right back.”

She couldn’t even nod. Nor did she care that she was still half-dressed while he wore all his clothes, his usual form-fitting shirt and breeches with gold stitching and clasps. She was so sleepily satisfied, she could only lean against the door and enjoy the sight of his broad back stretching the shirt to its limits as he bent over the table and moved little Inquisition markers from the west side of the map toward the east.

She blinked and he was back, picking her up and setting her naked bum on the cold table.

“Mark!”

“It’s perfect,” he whispered against her mouth, and quickly divested her of the rest of her clothes while her fumbling fingers somehow got his shirt clasps undone. He tossed them all over in the direction of her breeches by the door and toed off his boots under the table. He shucked his breeches after them.

 _You’re tall and this table is short. Do your lady advisors notice you don’t wear smallclothes or a loincloth under those tight breeches?_ She bit her lip, hoping she hadn’t voiced that aloud. She couldn’t be sure if his wide grin was because she’d said something, or because she was even more wide-eyed now than when they’d first come together on the stone shore of the Storm Coast.

His soul always seemed larger than life, but they were so familiar with each other that she frequently forgot how incredibly, physically, large he was.

She reverently ran a hand across his broad chest, marveled at the contrast between her brown and his silver skin. She shivered to see and feel each of his sculpted warrior muscles tremble for _her_.

He gently lay her back on the map—a large dry parchment stretched across and held to the table by blunt daggers at either end—with stray wisps of her hair tumbling from their pins to skirt across the Nahashin Marshes of Orlais, her back hiding the Forbidden Oasis.

She raised her knees, crooked a finger to beckon him closer.

He eased his hands under her, scooting her to the edge of the table, tilting her hips upward, and holding on tight.

He must have remembered how deep she’d ridden him this morning because his usual caution was now gone: his first thrust into her was hilt-deep, tearing a shout of pleasure from them both. He continued with deep, hard thrusts at a frenzied pace.

Blind with mixed want and rising pleasure, she arched her back, thrashed her head from side to side, and flung her arms out, scattering a handful of troop figures from Monfort north onto the floor, and ripping the northwest corner of the parchment. She bit into her fist with her lips to muffle her scream of release. He was only a second behind her, groaning out her name as he spilled into her with his climax.

He eased back with a sigh and rested his sweaty cheek to her heaving chest, leaning on his elbows so he didn’t crush her.

“Well, this was unexpected.”

“You’re not done yet.” He placed a kiss to her belly button and she laughed as well as she could with her exhausted core muscles.

“Mark, I couldn’t possibly—”

“I _know_ you,” he gave her a cocky smirk and sank to his knees in front of the table, dragging her back to the edge.

She couldn’t speak.

“You might want to hold on,” he echoed her words from this morning, but neither of them was laughing now.

He guided her hands down to the tips of his smooth horns, shining like obsidian, and where she clung while he eased her legs apart and licked straight into her center. He gently, patiently worked his wide tongue in and out, soothing where she throbbed, enticing where she thought herself completely done already. When she crested again, he soothed her thighs with more kisses, rose to his feet, sat her up on the table, and pulled her into the cradle of his arms.

_No matter where we go, or what we do, he has to cuddle._

She didn’t mind. She wasn’t even sure she could move or think yet anyway.

“How are you?” his chest rumbled against her cheek.

“Fabulous, though my throat is parched.”

He eased out of her arms to bend over and pick up a water skin from under the table.

“You do think of everything.”

His gave her his usual toothy grin while watching her gulp down half the water.

“I suppose you know where all these little soldier pieces go back on the map?”

“Yup.” He thought about it. “Maybe.”

While she dressed, he smoothed out the map where they’d ripped it, just west of Andoral’s Reach. He yanked the westernmost dagger out and plunged it back into the table at the right place to keep the parchment taut. He put the important pieces back in the right places and left the rest in a haphazard pile in the middle of the table between Orlais and Ferelden.

She tossed his breeches and shirt over to him and enjoyed the view while he dressed.

When she turned to unlock the door, he pressed up behind her and bent down to breathe her name into her neck.

“ _Ava_.”

It was the name she had been born with. The name she wore proudly when her Lady sent her out on her first mission. The name she had left unused for centuries while she hid behind other names. She didn’t know what had compelled her to give her real name when joining the Inquisition, but there was no going back: After Mark, she would always remain Ava, couldn’t imagine claiming any identity other than this true one that he loved.

Even after he was gone—years and years from now—she would be Ava, the one loved by Mark Adaar.

“Yes?” She hoped she sounded normal.

“Would you honor me with a walk around the gardens this evening?”

“I would love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Map references are from the poster and inner covers of the Dragon Age: Inquisition: PRIMA Official Game Guide. I use this game guide a lot in-game and when writing; I've filled it with little color-coded tabs and written notes inside. Even if I wasn't going to write in it, I find the paper copy of this guide easier to navigate than PRIMA's online version.


	13. The Eluvian

Mark had no trouble keeping his mind on the afternoon war council instead of thinking about the happy moments he’d spent in the War Room with Ava; this meeting was entirely too critical: Corypheus may have found another way into the Fade.

Leliana shared her scouts’ field reports, which supported Morrigan’s claim that the Temple of Mythal held an object of power similar to the orb Corypheus called The Anchor. Fascinated, Mark followed Morrigan into a little stone room off the gardens and walked through her magic mirror into an ethereal place of vague blue lights and indistinct archways.

It was beautiful. He felt like staying there.

He might never have left the Crossroads if Morrigan hadn’t suggested it was time to return to Skyhold. He suddenly snapped back to his senses and wondered what kind of power could have so easily made him forget himself. Had he been alone, he would have wandered off and been lost.

He followed Morrigan back through the Eluvian.

Ava was waiting for them, arms crossed, eyes white with anger.

“Touching The Orb of Destruction wasn’t enough warning for you, Mark? You decided to blithely follow a Witch of the Wilds through an Eluvian. You don’t tell anyone you’re going. You don’t stop to think about who or what could be on the other side, or if you could even return—or if you would even be yourself if you returned.”

He worked his lips, but no sound came out.

“You don’t know Corypheus’ orb is The Orb of Destruction,” Morrigan scoffed.

Ava turned her glare full-on Morrigan.

“It is. Mythal entrusted it to Fen’Harel for safe keeping. We all see how well that turned out.”

Morrigan laughed. “Mythal and Fen’Harel were not allies; certainly a Dalish would know this.”

“I trust the teachings of my Lady more than the fancies of a mortal witch who had Grey Wardens murder her own mother.”

Mark raised an eyebrow at Morrigan. Morrigan remained haughty.

“Flemeth planned to steal my body in the pursuit of eternal life. _I_ certainly need not justify protecting myself.”

“You only _think_ you know.”

“Enough.” Mark finally got his voice working again.

“Ava, I’m sorry I was careless. I will certainly show more respect and caution for magical objects in the future. Morrigan, I’m . . . Just, please be patient with us. We’re doing the best we can.”

“Very well, Inquisitor, I shall let Leliana know of our little trip to the Crossroads and I shall prepare for our move on the Arbor Wilds.” She left them alone.

Ava had uncrossed her arms, but still stood more stiffly than usual.

Mark reached out a hand and was relieved when she stepped forward to take it in her own.

“I’m sorry, Ava. I will be more careful.”

“You promised me a walk in the gardens. Then we should go to our room and sleep. It’s a long ride to the Arbor Wilds.”


	14. Sentinels

Hadn’t she lived through this nightmare before? It was full-out war with Red Templars and possessed Wardens. Inquisition troops, supported by Empress Celene’s Orlesian soldiers, helped clear a path for the Inquisitor and his party as they raced to get to the Temple of Mythal before Corypheus’ general.

Ava served as their invisible rear guard.

And then the Sentinels showed up in the Templar camp, killing both sides.

_No, no! We are allies! Our Lady sent me!_

She shouted it in all the languages she knew, including the most ancient of Elvish dialects she could haltingly remember from her youth, but the Sentinels did not heed her cries and the Inquisition soldiers and Templars slaughtered the elves fighting outside the Temple of Mythal.

Throat thick with tears, Ava continued on after Mark’s party.

Just as she had in Haven, she heard her Lady’s voice in her mind: _Save him and you save them all._

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, blinked away her tears, and ran onward.

They continued past Commander Cullen, who was fighting with sword and shield alongside his soldiers near the final path up to the Temple. They were nearly there.

Ava dropped more stealth powder around herself and closed the gap to cover Mark’s left flank. A second later, she sensed more than saw movement on their left and threw up a barrier around their party—too late for herself.

The Red Templar Shadow lunging for Mark hit Ava instead, dispelling both her invisibility and its own, knocking her to the ground. It roared and stomped on Ava’s left leg, jumped back to try again. Mark and Cassandra swung at the same time; he cut it in half through the midsection while she lopped off its head.

“Ava, _Ava_!” Mark was on his knees at her side, oblivious to the chaos around them while Morrigan, Cassandra, and Varric fought off all those who approached the Inquisitor and fallen scout.

Ava couldn’t speak. Her attempts to breathe were a rattling wheeze.

_Shit, collapsed lung._

She also had a crushed foot and dislocated knee. She impatiently slapped Mark’s hand away and pointed a dagger toward herself along the ribcage.

“ _No!_ ”

“She is not killing herself.” Solas stood beside the Inquisitor. “Let her proceed.”

_That was a fucking fabulous way to phrase it._

She jabbed herself with the blade and gasped out as the pressure changed to let her lung fill again. It didn’t hurt as badly as being trapped in timelessness, but it was pretty blighted close. She squeezed Mark’s hand and coughed out a reassurance.

“I can—I can heal myself. You can’t wait. Run ahead.”

“ _I won’t leave you!_ ”

“You cannot work your magic fast enough to survive this battlefield,” Solas said. “Not alone, unguarded.”

She looked up over Mark’s shoulder toward the bald elf and had a flash of a vision. Behind Mark stood a black wolf on his hind legs, three times the height of a man, with six red eyes. She blinked and was back in the present, with Solas haughtily standing behind the Inquisitor kneeling at her side.

“Fen . . .” she breathed. “What is the cost?”

“Fen?!” Mark latched on to her first word. “A bog? A marsh? Does she need healing herbs from the Fallow Mire?!”

“No,” Solas said. “She remembers old gods who swore their followers would protect each other. I have seen what she speaks of in my wanderings of the Fade.”

_Liar._

Let him tell all the lies he wanted, as long as he helped her get Mark moving again. She unflinchingly held his lupine gaze.

“The cost?” She whispered again.

“Has already been paid. I will loan you some of my power, but I warn you: it’s Fade and fire, not healing.”

“Yes.”

With a loose gesture of his hand, Solas sent a roaring wave of power over her. She screamed and rose in the air in a tornado of magic not visible to anyone but the two sharing the connection. She focused on the lung first, then the stab wounds made by the Shadow and by herself, and, finally, unmangled her leg to align the joints, tendons, and muscles.

Fully healed and buzzing with magic, she lightly touched down to the ground in front of the still-kneeling Mark and let him wrap his arms around her waist and bury his face in the front of her stomach.

“You are needed at the Temple,” she said, drawing him up to his feet.

He bent down to crush her in a kiss rather too personal for such a public and volatile place, but no one seemed to mind. When he finally released her, he turned to Solas.

“Thank you.”

“The talent is hers. I just expedited the process.”

“You guys going to help us, or stand there talking all day?” Varric shouted over his shoulder. He, Cassandra, and Morrigan were holding back a never-ending stream of Red Templars.

His confidence and focus back, Mark urged them on to the Temple. Inside, Morrigan counseled they follow the petitioner’s path: open the Temple door via the elven rituals around the Hall of Shrines, instead of jumping down a hole in the floor after Samson’s Red Templars. For the first time ever, Ava and Solas agreed with Morrigan. Despite the others’ protests, Mark agreed with the mages and honored Mythal’s rituals to open the door.

When they entered the Inner Sanctum, Sentinel archers surrounded them. Mark told his party to stand down. Ava sheathed her enchanted blades and kept a half-step behind him as he moved forward to speak to the leader on the balcony, Abelas.

She sighed in relief when Mark and Abelas came to a peaceful agreement, then groaned internally when Morrigan flew off after Abelas. Their Sentinel guide leading the way to the Well of Sorrows was pretty slow, often backtracking, sometimes sprinting a few steps sideways, but she led them on paths that avoided all the Red Templars—until they found Samson and his troops killing Sentinels in front of the Well.

Mark crippled Samson with Dagna’s Red Lyrium rune and vaporized his troops with a flare of green fire from his hand. It was still an intense skirmish to bring the bastard down; he kept drinking Red Lyrium out of glass jars to instantly beef himself up. When Samson finally fell unconscious, Mark left him tied up for Cullen’s troops to bring back to Skyhold for judgment.

Ava would have preferred to slit Samson’s throat, but she didn’t think this the time or the place for that kind of argument, especially since it looked like Morrigan and Abelas were about to duel to the death over the Well of Sorrows.

But none of them wanted more bloodshed. Mark spoke respectfully and Abelas relented.

The Sentinel leader also seemed to respect Solas, calling him Elvhen instead of a quick child. Several times during the conversation, Abelas flicked his eyes toward Ava’s Vallaslin, a mirror image of his own, though her dark skin gave it a more subtle effect than his. Abelas kept his superior tone, but seemed curious enough to address her directly:

“You are too strong to be shemlen.”

“I am a guardian, like you, but without Uthenera.”

He frowned at her impertinence, yet her heart broke for him as he walked away. Despite Solas’ assurance that there were more Elvhen for Abelas to find, this Temple had been his sole purpose and now Sorrow was drifting alone in the World.

She shook herself from her sadness to concentrate on the tasks at hand.

_We must move forward._

A few minutes later, Ava was shocked to find herself agreeing with Morrigan for the second time in one day.

“She’s right: You can’t leave the Well for Corypheus to claim later.”

“We can’t destroy it. Morrigan says she’s the best qualified, but maybe I should take the risk on myself. Is it wise for me to drink?”

_No! The voices will change you._

Ava wanted to warn him away, but the whispers asked her to hold her tongue. He had to make the choice himself without Mythal’s influence, or the soul of the waters would be lost forever. She settled for an oblique answer:

“You could do worse than being bound to Mythal.”

He looked toward Solas.

“You don’t want him to drink,” Ava said. “—not that he would agree to, even if you begged.”

Solas chuckled.

“How about—”

“No, Mark, it wouldn’t help. The Well would not speak to me. You must choose: Yourself, or the Witch of the Wilds.”

He gave the Well of Sorrows to Morrigan, who regained her sense of self just as Corypheus entered the courtyard. As they dashed through an Eluvian to return to Skyhold, Ava wondered if she’d done more harm than good by keeping silent.

_Should I have warned Morrigan what being bound to Mythal would mean? She didn’t really drink freely if she didn’t understand the cost._

Ava doubted Mythal would see it that way, let this mortal off on a technicality. She certainly wouldn’t let Morrigan slip away again without some kind of reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to dragonage.wikia.com, the Sentinels often enter Uthenera: Waking sleep; immortal. Uthenera was the name of the ancient practice of immortal elves who would "sleep" once they tired of life. Literally: "Eternal waking dream".


	15. Altar of Mythal

Ava waited at the archway into a wide clearing of the Arbor Wilds. Bull, Solas, and Varric were further behind her, speaking quietly amongst themselves and tending to their mounts. The breezes running through the walled garden around the Altar of Mythal were so full of whispers, Ava couldn’t overhear what Morrigan and Mark said.

Then her Lady walked out of a black mist amongst the tall grasses.

Ava gasped and clasped her hands to her chest in hope. Perhaps she would get an audience, an honor she had received only once during her Lady’s life within this particular body. Mythal, long united as one soul with the witch Flemeth, appeared in the guise she had held for this current age: the Witch of the Wilds who had raised Morrigan through childhood and saved Ferelden’s last two Grey Wardens at Ostagar.

When Flemeth turned to walk away from Morrigan, Ava fell on one knee and bowed her head in honor. She looked up, smiling with joy, only to see her Lady briefly meet her gaze and disappear into the black mist.

_She saw me and left without a word._

She stood, shoulders slumped, and dropped stealth powder to disappear herself.

-

As Flemeth walked away, Mark saw Ava waiting for her, her face full of more joy and hope than he’d ever seen in her. When the witch disappeared, Ava’s smile was replaced with anguish. She rose and disappeared.

_No!_

He rushed back to the horses.

“Where did Ava go?”

“Haven’t seen her,” Varric said.

“Your elf seems to have left,” Morrigan said.

“She’s not mine,” Mark snapped. “She doesn’t belong to anyone! She belongs to herself.”

“Very well, Inquisitor.” Morrigan mounted her horse and didn’t wait to see if the others followed as she headed back for Skyhold.

“She wouldn’t leave her ride, Boss.” The Iron Bull patted the neck of Ava’s Gwaren Land-Hammer.

“Want us to wait?” Varric asked.

Solas remained silent.

“No, you three go ahead with Morrigan. I’ll catch up.”

“If you insist, Your Inquisitorialness. We’ll ride slow, so we don’t get there before you. The Nightingale would kill us for leaving you alone.”

Mark nodded. The others mounted and rode after Morrigan.

He fought the urge to spin around in frantic circles. Where should he start looking? How far would she go before returning for her mount? Would she refuse to return until after he left?

Then he felt the breeze whisper across his shoulder:

_Turn around._

He looked back in the green clearing surrounded by a wall of ancient stone. There, shoulders slumped in defeat, was Ava on her knees in front of the Altar of Mythal. He took a few steps forward, stopped when he realized the winds had stopped and he could hear Ava talking to the air.

“Have you no words for your apostle?”

He could not see her face. Her voice trembled thickly with free-flowing tears.

“Even with the destruction of the others, I always heard your voice. Am I no longer useful to you? Is it over?

“Has your mortal daughter finally claimed your heart where no one else could?”

Then a fresh breeze slipped across her shoulders, carrying dried leaves and a single purple feather, about the length of her forearm. Ava jumped to her feet, caught the feather, and held it to her cheek, laughter breaking through her tears.

“Yes, I hear you! I shall do as you ask.”

She turned to Mark, still crying, but now crying with joy. She walked to where he stood in the middle of the clearing and pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth.

“The Lady remembers all her apostles. She hears all who cry for justice. She gives us her blessing to defeat the darkspawn Magister. Morrigan spoke the truth: She knows how to help.”

He didn’t know how to answer.

“My love,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s go home.”

She led him to her Gwaren Land-Hammer, invited him to mount with her and let his horse follow riderless. He held her close and warm in his arms all the way home to Skyhold, where they needed to plan their final move against Corypheus.


	16. No more god

Mark was in the war room with his advisors when it happened. Most of the Inquisition’s troops were still on the march back from the Arbor Wilds when Corypheus again tore the sky open over the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He raced to the stables to find Ava already there on their second-fastest horse; she’d left the fastest for him. Her lips were pursed, her eyes full of resolve.

“If you want to save the world, you have to kill him tonight,” she said.

He nodded, mounted, and sped out the gate with her on his heels, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas just seconds behind. The others gathered with what troops Cullen could scrape together and followed suit.

Mark rode in dangerously close to Corypheus before throwing himself off his horse and running straight for him. Scouts and soldiers who had already been at the Temple for reconnaissance were struggling with terrors and other demons that kept raining out of the new hole in the sky. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ava fling her chain and go flying daggers-first into the back of a green terror that had Scout Harding cornered.

Then Corypheus lifted the land they stood on into the air, the quakes sending Harding over the edge.

“Lace!” Ava lunged for her hand and tumbled after her.

He didn’t see or hear anything more to indicate their fate. He had to believe she had kept them both from death. She had saved him from a fall in Haven, saved him on the Storm Coast, and saved him in the Arbor Wilds. She could save herself and Harding, too.

He had to believe it because he had to focus on the current need.

_If you want to save the world, you have to kill him tonight._

He ran up the stairs after Corypheus.

-

It wasn’t far to fall, but Ava took no chances, casting barrier and Life Ward around herself and Lace Harding as they tumbled down to land on their asses on the charred stone. When they got to their feet, the Temple had risen so high that only a bird or dragon could reach it. She squared her shoulders and looked to her fellow scout.

“Let’s kill some of these demons, shall we?”

“Yes!” Harding readied her bow and the two jumped into the fray with The Iron Bull, Dorian, Sera, Cole, Rainier, and all the other scouts and troops who had been close enough to make the race to the Temple. Demons kept pouring out of the sky, many trying to outpace the defenders and go out into the rest of the world.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Ava flew into the back of another fleeing terror and it fell dead.

Above the din of fighting, two giant roars made everyone look up as two dragons collided over the Temple. They didn’t have more than a second to watch the aerial battle, for the demons on the ground kept coming.

A few minutes later—she felt like she’d been swinging her arms for days, but it had only been a few minutes—a giant pillar of green light shot from the Temple up into the violent night sky and the new Breach imploded on itself, sending them all sprawling on the ground. Boulders and rubble started tumbling from the sky, the airborne Temple following.

Ava yanked Lace and Sera up by their collars and shoved them behind a broken wall, sheltering them with her body. Remembering the time she’d been trapped, she hesitated just a second before throwing a barrier around them all, deflecting a large keystone that smashed down from above.

When the dust cleared, Mark and his party walked out to meet them.

Without Solas.

Hair creeping up on the back of her neck with the feeling she was being watched, Ava turned to look over her shoulder. At the edge of the battlefield she saw a black wolf with six red eyes. The wolf turned and walked off alone. She shivered and hoped that was the last time she ever needed to think about Fen’Harel.

Back on the field, Morrigan was congratulating Mark.

 “Victorious, I see. What a novel result.”

“So, what happens now?” Someone else asked.

“We go back to Skyhold,” the Inquisitor said.

Then, in front of everyone, Mark strode down the broken steps and kissed her with enough heat to raise cheers from the crowd. She reciprocated. They rode side-by-side the entire way home. As soon as they dismounted, he took her hand and wouldn’t let go as they waded through excited pilgrims in the courtyard and had to stop to receive thanks a hundred times between the gate and their room.

Weary from the longest night of their lives, they dumped all their armor, weapons, and clothes on the floor; washed the dirt and blood off with the little pitcher and basin; and fell into bed in a dreamless sleep.

-

Silence woke Ava like a cannon shot. She sat bolt upright in bed and clutched her sheet-covered knees to her chest. For the first time in centuries, she heard no whispers.

_My Lady?_

Nothing. The silence was even deeper than those few moments at the Altar when she had feared Mythal no longer had use for her.

“Ava?” Mark sat up and wrapped an arm around her. “What is it?”

“She’s gone.” She was too shocked to cry. “Not dead. Gone. Mythal’s gone. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“You can’t hear her?”

“Even if she chooses not to speak to me, I’d feel her existence. There’s . . . There’s no hiding something like that. A god can deceive, wear another face in your presence, but not hide _existence_. She’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ava rested her head on his chest, listened to his heart beat for her.

“Her mortal daughter, how will she cope without the voices?”

“Morrigan will be fine. It’s you I worry about.”

“I—I will also . . . continue. That was her first lesson, _we must move forward_.”

“We will,” he said. “Together.”

He placed a kiss on her cheek and eased back down to the mattress, holding her in silence until the dawn.


	17. A victory and a future

“You actually said that to him?” Ava was laughing so hard she clutched her sides.

Mark was thrilled to see her so full of mirth again. Over the last few weeks, she’d slowly recovered from her shock and shown interest in more and more of their usual conversations and activities. He was glad she _wanted_ to live—didn’t just feel she _had_ to.

“Yes, I actually said it.”

“ _You wanted into the Fade._ ”

She pitched her voice down trying to imitate his baritone, add menacing heat to it—and ruined the effect with more laughter. She hiccupped and slid her stool closer to his, ignoring the merrymaking of everyone around them in the main hall.

“An then, _zap!_ You fried him with Mark of the Rift.”

“Something like that.”

“I love you.”

“Because I crushed Corypheus?”

“Well, yes, and you’re really cute.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Not even a half-pint. I’m drunk on love.”

She gave his thigh a squeeze and slid her hand into his lap under the table, making him jump.

“Ava!” he hissed.

“What, you think you’re the only one getting lucky under the table tonight?”

He looked around. Everyone seemed to be otherwise occupied, though only a few were couples sitting close to each other. Leliana was telling Josie not to worry about the canapés. The Iron Bull was trying to get Cullen to try some fiery mead named after a dragon. Sera lay on the floor under a table where Rainier, Cole, Dorian, and Cassandra were losing a round of cards to Varric. Their noble guests stood around sipping wine and discussing politics, unable to give up the Grande Game even though they were far from their home courts.

“I’m thinking I’m the luckiest soul alive.”

“You’re about to be,” she breathed into his ear. “Let’s go upstairs.”

She led him through the crowd by the hand, gave him a little shove to walk backward through the entry to their stairwell, and was devouring his mouth before she kicked the door closed. He cupped her face in his hands, smoothed his thumbs over her cheek bones and eyelids until she sighed and melted against him.

He wrapped his arms around her and rested his cheek to the top of her head, inhaling the pine and strawberry scents she always carried with her.

“Ava.”

“Hmm?”

“Will you watch the sunrise with me?”

“Yes.”

He took her hand and they went up to their private balcony, where he pressed his front up against her back and wrapped his arms around her. As the bright sun broke over the snow-kissed mountain peaks, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer to ask.

“Ava, will you share every sunrise with me, for the rest of my life?”

She turned her head to look up at him, pull him down gently for a slow, sweet meeting of lips.

“Yes. Every sunrise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Check out my Pinterest board for this story at https://www.pinterest.com/dafan7711/the-scout-and-the-inquisitor-by-dafan7711-on-ao3/


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